You pass out from the gate of a city, and, as if by magic, the scene

changes to a wild, woodland landscape. Around you are forests of fir,

with their long, fan-like branches; while underfoot is spread a carpet

of yellow leaves. On a wooden bridge you cross a little silver stream:

and anon come forth into a pleasant land of farms. Wooden fences divide

the adjoining fields. The gates are opened by troops of children, and

the peasants take off their hats as you pass. The houses in the village

and smaller towns are built of hewn timber, and are generally painted

red. The floors of the taverns are strewn with the fragrant tips of

fir boughs. In many villages there are no taverns, and the peasants

take turns in receiving travellers. The thrifty housewife shows you

into the best chamber, the walls of which are hung round with rude

pictures from the Bible; and she brings you curdled milk from the

pan, with oaten cakes baked some months before. Meanwhile, the sturdy

husband has brought his horses from the plough, and harnessed them to

your carriage. Solitary travellers come and go in uncouth one-horse

chaises. Most of them are smoking pipes, and have hanging around their

necks in front a leather wallet, in which they carry tobacco, and the

great bank-notes of the country. You meet, also, groups of barefooted

Dalekarlian peasant women, travelling in pursuit of work, carrying in

their hands their shoes, which have high heels under the hollow of the

foot, and soles of birch bark.

Frequent, too, are the village churches, standing by the road-side.

In the churchyard are a few flowers, and much green grass. The

grave-stones are flat, large, low, and perhaps sunken, like the roofs

of old houses; the tenants all sleeping with their heads to the

westward. Each held a lighted taper in his hand when he died; and in

his coffin were placed his little heart-treasures, and a piece of

money for his last journey. Babes that came lifeless into the world

were carried in the arms of grey-haired old men to the only cradle

they ever slept in; and in the shroud of the dead mother were laid the

little garments of the child, that lived and died in her bosom. Near

the churchyard gate stands a poor-box, with a sloping roof over it,

fastened to a post by iron bands, and secured by a padlock. If it be

Sunday, the peasants sit on the church steps and con their psalm-books.

Others are coming down the road, listening to their beloved pastor.

He is their patriarch, and, like Melchizedek, both priest and king,

though he has no other throne than the church pulpit. The women carry

psalm-books in their hands, wrapped in silk handkerchiefs, and listen

devoutly to the good man’s words. But the young men, like Gallio, care

for none of these things. They are busy counting the plaits in the

kirtles of the peasant girls, their number being an indication of the

wearer’s wealth.

I must not forget to speak of the suddenly changing seasons of the

Northern clime. There is no long spring, gradually unfolding leaf and

blossom;—no lingering autumn, pompous with many-coloured leaves. But

winter and summer are wonderful, and pass into each other. The quail

has hardly ceased piping in the corn, when winter from the folds of

trailing clouds sows broad-cast over the land snow, icicles, and

rattling hail. The days wane apace. Ere long the sun hardly rises above

the horizon, or does not rise at all. The moon and the stars shine

through the day; only, at noon, they are pale and wan, and in the

southern sky a red, fiery glow, as of sunset, burns along the horizon,

and then goes out. And pleasantly under the silver moon, and twinkling

stars, ring the steel shoes of the skaters on the frozen sea, and

voices, and the sound of bells.

And now the Northern Lights begin to burn, faintly at first, like

sunbeams playing in the waters of the blue sea. Then a soft crimson

glow tinges the heavens. There is a blush on the cheek of night. The

colours come and go; and change from crimson to gold, from gold to

crimson. The snow is stained with rosy light. Twofold from the zenith,

east and west, flames a fiery sword; and a broad band passes athwart

the heavens, like a summer sunset. Soft purple clouds come sailing over

the sky, and through their vapoury folds the winking stars shine white

as silver. With such pomp as this is Merry Christmas ushered in, though

only a single star heralded the first Christmas. And in memory of that

day the Swedish peasants dance on straw; and the peasant girls throw

straws at the timbered roof of the hall, and for every one that sticks

in a crack shall a groomsman come to their wedding. Merry indeed is

Christmas-time for Swedish peasants; brandy and nut-brown ale in wooden

bowls; and the great Yulecake crowned with a cheese, and garlanded

with apples, and upholding a three-armed candlestick over the Christmas

feast.

And now leafy mid-summer, full of blossoms and the song of

nightingales, is come. In every village there is a May-pole fifty

feet high, with wreaths and roses and ribands streaming in the wind,

and a noisy weathercock on top. The sun does not set till ten o’clock

at night; and the children are at play in the streets an hour later.

The windows and doors are all open, and you may sit and read till

midnight without a candle. O how beautiful is the summer night, which

is not night, but a sunless yet unclouded day, descending upon earth

with dews, and shadows, and refreshing coolness! How beautiful the

long, mild twilight, which unites to-day with yesterday! How beautiful

the silent hour, when Morning and Evening thus sit together, hand in

hand, beneath the starless sky of midnight! From the church tower in

the public square the bell tolls the hour, with a soft musical chime;

and the watchman, whose watch-tower is the belfry, blows a blast on

his horn, for each stroke of the hammer, and four times, for the four

corners of the heavens, in a sonorous voice he chants,—

“Ho! watchman, ho!

Twelve is the clock!

God keep our town

From fire and brand,

And hostile hand!

Twelve is the clock!”

From his swallow’s nest in the belfry he can see the sun all night

long; and farther north the priest stands at his door in the warm

midnight, and lights his pipe with a common burning-glass.

I trust that these remarks will not be deemed irrelevant to the poem,

but will lead to a clearer understanding of it. The translation is

literal perhaps to a fault. In no instance have I done the author

a wrong, by introducing into his work any supposed improvements or

embellishments of my own. I have preserved even the measure; in which,

it must be confessed, the motions of the English Muse are not unlike

those of a prisoner dancing to the music of his chains; and perhaps, as

Dr. Johnson said of the dancing dog, “the wonder is not that she should

do it so well, but that she should do it at all.”

Esaias Tegnér, the author of this poem, was born in the parish of By,

in Wärmland, in the year 1782. In 1799 he entered the University of

Lund, as a student; and in 1812 was appointed Professor of Greek in

that institution. In 1824 he became Bishop of Wexiö. He is the glory

and boast of Sweden, and stands first among all her poets living or

dead. His principal work is Frithiof’s Saga; one of the most remarkable

poems of the age. Bishop Tegnér is a prophet honoured in his own

country, adding one more to the list of great names that adorn her

history.

Pentecost, day of rejoicing, had come. The church of the village

Gleaming stood in the morning’s sheen. On the spire of the belfry,

Decked with a brazen cock, the friendly flames of the Spring-sun

Glanced like the tongues of fire, beheld by Apostles aforetime.

Clear was the heaven and blue, and May, with her cap crowned by

roses,

Stood in her holiday dress in the fields, and the wind and the

brooklet

Murmured gladness and peace, God’s-peace! with lips rosy-tinted

Whispered the race of the flowers, and merry on balancing branches

Birds were singing their carol, a jubilant hymn to the Highest.

Swept and clean was the churchyard. Adorned like a leaf-woven arbour

Stood its old-fashioned gate; and within upon each cross of iron

Hung was a fragrant garland, new twined by the hands of affection.

Even the dial, that stood on a mound among the departed

(There full a hundred years had it stood), was embellished with

blossoms,

Like to the patriarch hoary, the sage of his kith and the hamlet,

Who on his birthday is crowned by children and children’s children,

So stood the ancient prophet, and mute with his pencil of iron

Marked on the tablet of stone, and measured the time and its changes,

While all around at his feet an eternity slumbered in quiet.

Also the church within was adorned, for this was the season

When the young, their parents’ hope, and the loved ones of heaven,

Should at the foot of the altar renew the vows of their baptism.

Therefore each nook and corner was swept and cleaned, and the dust

was

Blown from the walls and ceiling, and from the oil-painted benches.

There stood the church like a garden; the Feast of the Leafy

Pavilions[133]

Saw we in living presentment. From noble arms on the church wall

Grew forth a cluster of leaves, and the preacher’s pulpit of

oak-wood

Budded once more anew, as aforetime the rod before Aaron.

Wreathed thereon was the Bible with leaves, and the dove, washed

with silver,

Under its canopy fastened, had on it a necklace of wind-flowers.

But in front of the choir, round the altar-piece painted by

Hörberg,[134]

Crept a garland gigantic; and bright-curling tresses of angels

Peeped, like the sun from a cloud, from out of the shadowy leaf-work.

Likewise the lustre of brass, new polished, blinked from the ceiling,

And for lights there were lilies of Pentecost set in the sockets.

Loud rang the bells already; the thronging crowd was assembled

Far from valleys and hills, to list to the holy preaching.

Hark! then roll forth at once the mighty tones from the organ,

Hover like voices from God, aloft like invisible spirits.

Like as Elias in heaven, when he cast from off him his mantle,

So cast off the soul its garments of earth; and with one voice

Chimed in the congregation, and sang an anthem immortal

Of the sublime Wallín,[135] of David’s harp in the Northland

Tuned to the choral of Luther; the song on its mighty pinions

Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to heaven,

And each face did shine like the Holy One’s face upon Tabor.

Lo! there entered then into the church the Reverend Teacher.

Father he hight and he was in the parish; a christianly plainness

Clothed from his head to his feet the old man of seventy winters.

Friendly was he to behold, and glad as the heralding angel

Walked he among the crowds, but still a contemplative grandeur

Lay on his forehead as clear, as on moss-covered grave-stone a

sunbeam.

As in his inspiration (an evening twilight that faintly

Gleams in the human soul, even now, from the day of creation)

Th’ Artist, the friend of heaven, imagines Saint John when in Patmos,

Grey, with his eyes uplifted to heaven, so seemed then the old man;

Such was the glance of his eye, and such were his tresses of silver.

All the congregation arose in the pews that were numbered,

But with a cordial look to the right and the left hand, the old man

Nodding all hail and peace, disappeared in the innermost chancel.

Simply and solemnly now proceeded the Christian service,

Singing and prayer, and at last an ardent discourse from the old man.

Many a moving word and warning, that out of the heart came,

Fell like the dew of the morning, like manna on those in the desert.

Then, when all was finished, the Teacher re-entered the chancel,

Followed therein by the young. The boys on the right had their

places,

Delicate figures, with close-curling hair, and cheeks rosy-blooming.

But on the left of these, there stood the tremulous lilies,

Tinged with the blushing light of the dawn, the diffident maidens,—

Folding their hands in prayer, and their eyes cast down on the

pavement.

Now came, with question and answer, the Catechism. In the beginning,

Answered the children with troubled and faltering voice, but the

old man’s

Glances of kindness encouraged them soon, and the doctrines eternal

Flowed, like the waters of fountains, so clear from lips unpolluted.

Each time the answer was closed, and as oft as they named the

Redeemer,

Lowly louted the boys, and lowly the maidens all courtesied.

Friendly the Teacher stood, like an angel of light there among them,

And to the children explained the holy, the highest in few words,

Thorough, yet simple and clear, for sublimity always is simple,

Both in sermon and song, a child can seize on its meaning.

E’en as the green-growing bud is unfolded when Spring-tide

approaches,

Leaf by leaf puts forth, and, warmed by the radiant sunshine,

Blushes with purple and gold, till at last the perfected blossom

Opens its odorous chalice, and rocks with its crown in the breezes,

So was unfolded here the Christian lore of salvation,

Line by line from the soul of childhood. The fathers and mothers

Stood behind them in tears, and were glad at the well-worded answer.

Now went the old man up to the altar;—and straightway

transfigured

(So did it seem unto me) was then the affectionate Teacher.

Like the Lord’s Prophet sublime, and awful as Death and as Judgment

Stood he, the God-commissioned, the soul-searcher, earthward

descending

Glances, sharp as a sword, into hearts, that to him were transparent

Shot he; his voice was deep, was low like the thunder afar off.

So on a sudden transfigured he stood there, he spake and he

questioned.

“This is the faith of the Fathers, the Faith the Apostles

delivered,

This is moreover the faith whereunto I baptized you, while still ye

Lay on your mothers’ breasts, and nearer the portals of heaven.

Slumbering received you then the Holy Church in its bosom;

Wakened from sleep are ye now, and the light in its radiant

splendour

Downward rains from the heaven,—to-day on the threshold of

childhood

Kindly she frees you again, to examine and make your election,

For she knows nought of compulsion, and only conviction desireth.

This is the hour of your trial, the turning-point of existence,

Seed for the coming days; without revocation departeth

Now from your lips the confession; Bethink ye, before ye make answer!

Think not, O think not with guile to deceive the questioning Teacher.

Sharp is his eye to-day, and a curse ever rests upon falsehood.

Enter not with a lie on Life’s journey; the multitude hears you,

Brothers and sisters and parents, what dear upon earth is and holy

Standeth before your sight as a witness; the Judge everlasting

Looks from the sun down upon you, and angels in waiting beside him

Grave your confession in letters of fire, upon tablets eternal.

Thus, then,—Believe ye in God, in the Father who this world created?

Him who redeemed it, the Son, and the Spirit where both are united?

Will ye promise me here (a holy promise!), to cherish

God more than all things earthly, and every man as a brother?

Will ye promise me here to confirm your faith by your living,

Th’ heavenly faith of affection! to hope, to forgive, and to suffer,

Be what it may your condition, and walk before God in uprightness?

Will ye promise me this before God and man?”—With a clear voice

Answered the young men Yes! and Yes! with lips softly breathing

Answered the maidens eke. Then dissolved from the brow of the

Teacher

Clouds with the thunders therein, and he spake in accents more

gentle,

Soft as the evening’s breath, as harps by Babylon’s rivers.

“Hail, then, hail to you all! To the heirdom of heaven be ye

welcome;

Children no more from this day, but by covenant brothers and sisters!

Yet,—for what reason not children? Of such is the kingdom of heaven.

Here upon earth an assemblage of children, in heaven one Father,

Ruling them all as his household,—forgiving in turn and chastising,

That is of human life a picture, as Scripture has taught us.

Blest are the pure before God! Upon purity and upon virtue

Resteth the Christian Faith; she herself from on high is descended.

Strong as a man and pure as a child, is the sum of the doctrine,

Which the Divine One taught, and suffered and died on the cross for.

O! as ye wander this day from childhood’s sacred asylum

Downward and ever downward, and deeper in Age’s chill valley,

Oh! how soon will ye come,—too soon!—and long to turn backward

Up to its hill-tops again, to the sun-illumined, where Judgment

Stood like a father before you, and Pardon, clad like a mother,

Gave you her hand to kiss, and the loving heart was forgiven.

Life was a play, and your hands grasped after the roses of heaven!

Seventy years have I lived already; the Father eternal

Gave me gladness and care; but the loveliest hours of existence,

When I have steadfastly gazed in their eyes, I have instantly known

them,

Known them all again;—they were my childhood’s acquaintance.

Therefore take from henceforth, as guides in the paths of existence,

Prayer, with her eyes raised to heaven, and Innocence, bride of

man’s childhood.

Innocence, child beloved, is a guest from the world of the blessed,

Beautiful, and in her hand a lily; on life’s roaring billows

Swings she in safety, she heedeth them not, in the ship she is

sleeping.

Calmly she gazes around in the turmoil of men; in the desert

Angels descend and minister unto her; she herself knoweth

Nought of her glorious attendance; but follows faithful and humble,

Follows so long as she may her friend; O do not reject her,

For she cometh from God and she holdeth the keys of the heavens.

Prayer is Innocence’ friend; and willingly flieth incessant

’Twixt the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon of heaven.

Son of Eternity, fettered in Time, and an exile, the Spirit

Tugs at his chains evermore, and struggles like flames ever upward.

Still he recalls with emotion his Father’s manifold mansions,

Thinks of the land of his fathers, where blossomed more freshly the

flowerets,

Shone a more beautiful sun, and he played with the wingèd angels.

Then grows the earth too narrow, too close; and homesick for heaven

Longs the wanderer again; and the Spirit’s longings are worship;

Worship is called his most beautiful hour, and its tongue is

entreaty.

Ah! when the infinite burden of life descendeth upon us,

Crushes to earth our hope, and, under the earth, in the graveyard,—

Then it is good to pray unto God; for His sorrowing children

Turns he ne’er from his door, but he heals and helps and consoles

them.

Yet it is better to pray when all things are prosperous with us,

Pray in fortunate days, for Life’s most beautiful Fortune

Kneels before the Eternal’s throne; and, with hands interfolded,

Praises thankful and moved the only Giver of blessings.

Or do ye know, ye children, one blessing that comes not from Heaven?

What has mankind forsooth, the poor! that it has not received?

Therefore, fall in the dust and pray! The seraphs adoring

Cover with pinions six their face in the glory of him who

Hung his masonry pendant on nought, when the world he created.

Earth declareth his might, and the firmament uttereth his glory.

Races blossom and die, and stars fall downward from heaven,

Downward like withered leaves; at the last stroke of midnight,

millenniums

Lay themselves down at his feet, and he sees them, but counts them

as nothing.

Who shall stand in His presence? The wrath of the Judge is terrific,

Casting the insolent down at a glance. When he speaks in his anger

Hillocks skip like the kid, and mountains leap like the roebuck.

Yet,—why are ye afraid, ye children? This awful avenger,

Ah! is a merciful God! God’s voice was not in the earthquake,

Not in the fire, nor the storm, but it was in the whispering breezes.

Love is the root of creation; God’s essence; worlds without number

Lie in his bosom like children; he made them for this purpose only:

Only to love and be loved again, he breathed forth his spirit

Into the slumbering dust, and upright standing, it laid its

Hand on its heart, and felt it was warm with a flame out of heaven.

Quench, O quench not that flame! It is the breath of your being.

Love is life, but hatred is death. Not father nor mother

Loved you, as God has loved you; for ’twas that you may be happy

Gave he his only Son. When he bowed down his head in the death-hour,

Solemnized Love its triumph; the sacrifice then was completed.

Lo! then was rent on a sudden the veil of the temple, dividing

Earth and heaven apart, and the dead from their sepulchres rising,

Whispered with pallid lips and low in the ears of each other

Th’ answer, but dreamed of before, to creation’s enigma,—Atonement!

Depths of Love are Atonement’s depths, for Love is Atonement.

Therefore, child of mortality, love thou the merciful Father;

Wish what the Holy One wishes, and not from fear, but affection;

Fear is the virtue of slaves; but the heart that loveth is willing;

Perfect was before God, and perfect is Love, and Love only.

Lovest thou God as thou oughtest, then lovest thou likewise thy

brethren;

One is the sun in heaven, and one, only one, is Love also.

Bears not each human figure the godlike stamp on his forehead?

Readest thou not in his face thine origin? Is he not sailing

Lost like thyself on an ocean unknown, and is he not guided

By the same stars that guide thee? Why shouldst thou hate then thy

brother?

Hateth he thee, forgive! For ’tis sweet to stammer one letter

Of the Eternal’s language;—on earth it is callèd Forgiveness!

Knowest thou him, who forgave, with the crown of thorns on his

temples?

Earnestly prayed for his foes, for his murderers? Say, dost thou

know him?

Ah! thou confesseth his name, so follow likewise his example,

Think of thy brother no ill, but throw a veil over his failings,

Guide the erring aright; for the good, the heavenly Shepherd

Took the lost lamb in his arms, and bore it back to its mother.

This is the fruit of Love, and it is by its fruits that we know it.

Love is the creature’s welfare, with God; but love among mortals

Is but an endless sigh! He longs, and endures, and stands waiting,

Suffers, and yet rejoices, and smiles with tears on his eyelids.

Hope,—so is called upon earth, his recompense,—Hope, the

befriending,

Does what she can, for she points evermore up to heaven, and

faithful

Plunges her anchor’s peak in the depths of the grave, and beneath it

Paints a more beautiful world, a dim, but a sweet play of shadows!

Races, better than we, have leaned on her wavering promise,

Having nought else but Hope. Then praise we our Father in heaven,

Him, who has given us more! for to us has Hope been transfigured,

Groping no longer in night; she is Faith, she is living assurance.

Faith is enlightened Hope; she is light, is the eye of affection,

Dreams of the longing interprets, and carves their visions in marble.

Faith is the sun of life; and her countenance shines like the

Hebrew’s,

For she has looked upon God; the heaven on its stable foundation

Draws she with chains down to earth, and the New Jerusalem sinketh

Splendid with portals twelve in golden vapours descending.

There enraptured she wanders, and looks at the figures majestic,

Fears not the wingèd crowd, in the midst of them all is her

homestead.

Therefore love and believe; for works will follow spontaneous,

Even as day does the sun; the Right from the Good is an offspring,

Love in a bodily shape; and Christian works are no more than

Animate Love and Faith, as flowers are the animate spring-tide.

Works do follow us all unto God; there stand and bear witness

Not what they seemed,—but what they were only. Blessed is he who

Hears their confession secure; they are mute upon earth until

Death’s hand

Opens the mouth of the silent. Ye children, does Death e’er alarm

you?

Death is the brother of Love, twin-brother is he, and is only

More austere to behold. With a kiss upon lips that are fading

Takes he the soul and departs, and rocked in the arm of affection,

Places the ransomed child, new born, ’fore the face of its Father.

Sounds of his coming already I hear,—see dimly his pinions,

Swart as the night, but with stars strewn upon them! I fear not

before him.

Death is only release, and in mercy is mute. On his bosom

Freer breathes, in its coolness, my breast; and face to face

standing,

Look I on God as He is, a sun unpolluted by vapours;

Look on the light of the ages I loved, the spirits majestic,

Nobler, better than I; they stand by the throne all transfigured,

Vested in white, and with harps of gold, and are singing an anthem,

Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language spoken by angels.

You, in like manner, ye children beloved, he one day shall gather,

Never forgets he the weary;—then welcome, ye loved ones, hereafter!

Meanwhile forget not the keeping of vows, forget not the promise,

Wander from holiness onward to holiness; earth shall ye heed not;

Earth is but dust and heaven is light; I have pledged you to heaven.

God of the Universe, hear me; thou fountain of Love everlasting,

Hark to the voice of thy servant! I send up my prayer to thy heaven!

Let me hereafter not miss at thy throne one spirit of all these,

Whom thou hast given me here! I have loved them all like a father.

May they bear witness for me, that I taught them the way of

salvation,

Faithful, so far as I knew, of thy word; again may they know me,

Fall on their Teacher’s breast, and before thy face may I place them,

Pure as they now are, but only more tried, and exclaiming with

gladness

Father, lo! I am here, and the children, whom thou hast given me!”

Weeping he spake in these words; and now at the beck of the old

man,

Knee against knee they knitted a wreath round the altar’s enclosure.

Kneeling he read then the prayers of the consecration, and softly

With him the children read; at the close, with tremulous accents,

Asked he the peace of heaven, a benediction upon them.

Now should have ended his task for the day; the following Sunday

Was for the young appointed to eat of the Lord’s holy Supper.

Sudden, as struck from the clouds, stood the Teacher silent, and

laid his

Hand on his forehead, and cast his looks upward; while thoughts

high and holy

Flew through the midst of his soul, and his eyes glanced with

wonderful brightness.

“On the next Sunday, who knows! perhaps I shall rest in the

graveyard!

Some one perhaps of yourselves, a lily broken untimely,

Bow down his head to the earth; why delay I? the hour is

accomplished.

Warm is the heart;—I will! for to-day grows the harvest of heaven.

What I began accomplish I now; for what failing therein is,

I, the old man, will answer to God and the reverend father.

Say to me only, ye children, ye denizens new-come in heaven,

Are ye ready this day to eat of the bread of Atonement?

What it denoteth, that know ye full well, I have told it you often.

Of the new covenant a symbol it is, of Atonement a token,

’Stablished between earth and heaven. Man by his sins and

transgressions

Far has wandered from God, from his essence. ’Twas in the beginning

Fast by the Tree of Knowledge he fell, and it hangs its crown o’er

the

Fall to this day; in the Thought is the Fall; in the Heart the

Atonement.

Infinite is the Fall, the Atonement infinite likewise.

See! behind me, as far as the old man remembers, and forward,

Far as Hope in her flight can reach with her wearied pinions,

Sin and Atonement incessant go through the lifetime of mortals.

Sin is brought forth full-grown; but Atonement sleeps in our bosoms

Still as the cradled babe; and dreams of heaven and of angels,

Cannot awake to sensation; is like the tones in the harp’s strings,

Spirits imprisoned, that wait evermore the deliverer’s finger.

Therefore, ye children beloved, descended the Prince of Atonement,

Woke the slumberer from sleep, and she stands now with eyes all

resplendent,

Bright as the vault of the sky, and battles with Sin and o’ercomes

her.

Downward to earth He came and transfigured, thence reascended,

Not from the heart in like wise, for there he still lives in the

Spirit,

Loves and atones evermore. So long as Time is, is Atonement.

Therefore with reverence take this day her visible token.

Tokens are dead if the things live not. The light everlasting

Unto the blind is not, but is born of the eye that has vision.

Neither in bread nor in wine, but in the heart that is hallowed

Lieth forgiveness enshrined; the intention alone of amendment

Fruits of the earth ennobles to heavenly things, and removes all

Sin and the guerdon of sin. Only Love with his arm wide extended,

Penitence weeping and praying; the Will that is tried, and whose

gold flows

Purified forth from the flames; in a word, mankind by Atonement

Breaketh Atonement’s bread, and drinketh Atonement’s wine-cup.

But he who cometh up hither, unworthy, with hate in his bosom,

Scoffing at men and at God, is guilty of Christ’s blessed body,

And the Redeemer’s blood! To himself he eateth and drinketh

Death and doom! And from this, preserve us, thou heavenly Father!

Are ye ready, ye children, to eat of the bread of Atonement?”

Thus with emotion he asked, and together answered the children

“Yes!” with deep sobs interrupted. Then read he the due

supplications,

Read the Form of Communion, and in chimed the organ and anthem;

“O! Holy Lamb of God, who takest away our transgressions,

Hear us! give us thy peace! have mercy, have mercy upon us!”

Th’ old man, with trembling hand, and heavenly pearls on his

eyelids,

Filled now the chalice and paten, and dealt round the mystical

symbols,

O! then seemed it to me, as if God, with the broad eye of mid-day,

Clearer looked in at the windows, and all the trees in the

churchyard

Bowed down their summits of green, and the grass on the graves ’gan

to shiver.

But in the children (I noted it well; I knew it) there ran a

Tremor of holy rapture along through their icy-cold members.

Decked like an altar before them, there stood the green earth, and

above it

Heaven opened itself, as of old before Stephen; they saw there

Radiant in glory the Father, and on his right hand the Redeemer.

Under them hear they the clang of harp-strings, and angels from gold

clouds

Beckon to them like brothers, and fan with their pinions of purple.

Closed was the Teacher’s task, and with heaven in their hearts and

their faces,

Up rose the children all, and each bowed him, weeping full sorely,

Downward to kiss that reverend hand, but all of them pressed he

Moved to his bosom, and laid, with a prayer, his hands full of

blessings,

Now on the holy breast, and now on the innocent tresses.

[133] The Feast of the Tabernacles; in Swedish, _Löfhyddohögtiden_, the

Leaf-huts’-high-tide.

[134] The Peasant-painter of Sweden. He is known chiefly by his

altar-pieces in the village churches.

[135] A distinguished pulpit-orator and poet. He is particularly

remarkable for the beauty and sublimity of his psalms.

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GERMAN.

THE STATUE OVER THE CATHEDRAL DOOR.

FROM JULIUS MOSEN.

Forms of saints and kings are standing

The cathedral door above;

Yet I saw but one among them

Who hath soothed my soul with love.

In his mantle,—wound about him,

As their robes the sowers wind,—

Bore he swallows and their fledglings,

Flowers and weeds of every kind.

And so stands he calm and childlike!

High in wind and tempest wild;

O, were I like him exalted,

I would be like him, a child!

And my songs,—green leaves and blossoms,—

To the doors of heaven would bear,

Calling, even in storm and tempest,

Round me still these birds of air.

THE HEMLOCK-TREE.

O hemlock-tree! O hemlock-tree! how faithful are thy branches!

Green not alone in summer time,

But in the winter’s frost and rime!

O hemlock-tree! O hemlock-tree! how faithful are thy branches!

O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom!

To love me in prosperity,

And leave me in adversity!

O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom!

The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak’st for thine example!

So long as summer laughs she sings,

But in the autumn spreads her wings!

The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak’st for thine example!

The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy falsehood!

It flows so long as falls the rain,

In drought its springs soon dry again.

The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy falsehood!

ANNIE OF THARAW.

FROM THE LOW GERMAN OF SIMON DACH.

Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old,

She is my life, and my goods, and my gold.

Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again

To me has surrendered in joy and in pain.

Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good,

Thou, O my soul, my flesh and my blood!

Then come the wild weather, come sleet, or come snow,

We will stand by each other, however it blow.

Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain,

Shall be to our true love as links to the chain.

As the palm-tree standeth so straight and so tall,

The more the hail beats, and the more the rains fall,—

So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and strong,

Through crosses, through sorrows, through manifold wrong.

Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone

In a desolate land where the sun is scarce known,—

Through forests I’ll follow, and where the sea flows,

Through ice and through iron, through armies of foes.

Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun,

The threads of our two lives are woven in one.

Whate’er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed,

Whatever forbidden thou hast not gainsaid.

How in the turmoil of life can love stand,

Where there is not one heart, and one mouth, and one hand?

Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and strife;

Like a dog and a cat live such man and wife.

Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love;

Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove.

Whate’er my desire is, in thine may be seen;

I am king of the household, and thou art its queen.

It is this, O my Annie, my heart’s sweetest rest,

That makes of us twain but one soul in one breast.

This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell;

While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell.

THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL.

FROM JULIUS MOSEN.

On the cross the dying Saviour

Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm,

Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling

In his pierced and bleeding palm.

And by all the world forsaken,

Sees he how with zealous care

At the ruthless nail of iron

A little bird is striving there.

Stained with blood and never tiring,

With its beak it doth not cease,

From the cross ’twould free the Saviour,

Its Creator’s Son release.

And the Saviour speaks in mildness;

“Blest be thou of all the good!

Bear, as token of this moment,

Marks of blood and holy rood!”

And that bird is called the Crossbill;

Covered all with blood so clear.

In the groves of pine it singeth

Songs, like legends, strange to hear.

POETIC APHORISMS.

FROM THE SINNGEDICHTE OF FRIEDRICH VON LOGAU.

SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.

MONEY.

Whereunto is money good?

Who has it not wants hardihood,

Who has it has much trouble and care

Who once has had it has despair.

THE BEST MEDICINES.

Joy and Temperance and Repose

Slam the door on the doctor’s nose.

SIN.

Manlike is it to fall into sin,

Fiend-like is it to dwell therein,

Christ-like is it for sin to grieve,

God-like is it all sin to leave.

LAW OF LIFE.

Live I, so live I,

To my Lord heartily,

To my Prince faithfully,

To my Neighbour honestly,

Die I, so die I.

POVERTY AND BLINDNESS.

A blind man is a poor man, and blind a poor man is;

For the former seeth no man, and the latter no man sees.

CREEDS.

Lutheran, Popish, Calvinistic, all these creeds and doctrines three

Extant are; but still the doubt is, where Christianity may be.

THE RESTLESS HEART.

A millstone and the human heart, are driven ever round;

If they have nothing else to grind, they must themselves be ground.

CHRISTIAN LOVE.

Whilom Love was like a fire, and warmth and comfort it bespoke;

But, alas! it is now quenched, and only bites us, like the smoke.

ART AND TACT.

Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined;

Often in a wooden house a golden room we find.

RETRIBUTION.

Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small;

Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds he all.

TRUTH.

When by night the frogs are croaking, kindle but a torch’s fire,

Ha! how soon they all are silent! Thus Truth silences the liar.

RHYMES.

If perhaps these rhymes of mine should sound not well in strangers’

ears,

They have only to bethink them that it happens so with theirs;

For so long as words, like mortals, call a fatherland their own,

They will be most highly valued where they are best and longest

known.

THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS.

FROM HEINRICH HEINE.

The sea hath its pearls,

The heaven hath its stars;

But my heart, my heart,

My heart hath its love.

Great are the sea and the heaven;

Yet greater is my heart,

And fairer than pearls and stars

Flashes and beams my love.

Thou little, youthful maiden,

Come unto my great heart;

My heart, and the sea, and the heaven,

Are melting away with love!

SONG OF THE SILENT LAND.

FROM SALIS.

Into the Silent Land!

Ah! who shall lead us thither?

Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather,

And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand.

Who leads us with a gentle hand

Thither, O thither,

Into the Silent Land?

Into the Silent Land!

To you, ye boundless regions

Of all perfection! Tender morning-visions

Of beauteous souls! The Future’s pledge and band!

Who in Life’s battle firm doth stand,

Shall bear Hope’s tender blossoms

Into the Silent Land!

O Land! O Land!

For all the broken-hearted

The mildest herald by our faith allotted,

Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand

To lead us with a gentle hand

Into the land of the great Departed,

Into the Silent Land!

BLESSED ARE THE DEAD.

O, how blest are ye whose toils are ended!

Who, through death, have unto God ascended!

Ye have arisen

From the cares which keep us still in prison.

We are still as in a dungeon living,

Still oppressed with sorrow and misgiving;

Our undertakings

Are but toils, and troubles, and heart-breakings.

Ye, meanwhile, are in your chambers sleeping,

Quiet, and set free from all our weeping;

No cross nor trial

Hinders your enjoyments with denial.

Christ has wiped away your tears for ever;

Ye have that for which we still endeavour.

To you are chanted

Songs which yet no mortal ear have haunted.

Ah! who would not, then, depart with gladness,

To inherit heaven for earthly sadness?

Who here would languish

Longer in bewailing and in anguish?

Come, O Christ, and loose the chains that bind us!

Lead us forth, and cast this world behind us!

With thee, the Anointed,

Finds the soul its joy and rest appointed.

THE WAVE.

FROM TIEDGE.

Whither, thou turbid wave?

Whither, with so much haste,

As if a thief wert thou?

“I am the Wave of Life,

Stained with my margin’s dust;

From the struggle and the strife

Of the narrow stream I fly

To the Sea’s immensity,

To wash from me the slime

Of the muddy banks of Time.”

THE BIRD AND THE SHIP.

FROM MÜLLER.

“The rivers rush into the sea,

By castle and town they go;

The winds behind them merrily

Their noisy trumpets blow.

“The clouds are passing far and high,

We little birds in them play;

And everything, that can sing and fly,

Goes with us, and far away.

“I greet thee, bonny boat! Whither, or whence,

With thy fluttering golden band?“—

“I greet thee, little bird! To the wide sea

I haste from the narrow land.

“Full and swollen is every sail;

I see no longer a hill,

I have trusted all to the sounding gale,

And it will not let me stand still.

“And wilt thou, little bird, go with us?

Thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall,

For full to sinking is my house

With merry companions all.”—

“I need not and seek not company,

Bonny boat, I can sing all alone;

For the mainmast tall too heavy am I,

Bonny boat, I have wings of my own.

“High over the sails, high over the mast,

Who shall gainsay these joys?

When thy merry companions are still, at last

Thou shalt hear the sound of my voice.

“Who neither may rest, nor listen may,

God bless them every one!

I dart away, in the bright blue day,

And the golden fields of the sun.

“Thus do I sing my weary song,

Wherever the four winds blow;

And this same song, my whole life long,

Neither Poet nor Printer may know.”

THE HAPPIEST LAND.

FRAGMENT OF A MODERN GERMAN BALLAD.

There sat one day in quiet,

By an alehouse on the Rhine,

Four hale and hearty fellows,

And drank the precious wine.

The landlord’s daughter filled their cups

Around the rustic board;

Then sat they all so calm and still,

And spake not one rude word.

But, when the maid departed,

A Swabian raised his hand,

And cried, all hot and flushed with wine,

“Long live the Swabian land!

“The greatest kingdom upon earth

Cannot with that compare;

With all the stout and hardy men

And the nut-brown maidens there.”

“Ha!” cried a Saxon, laughing,—

And dashed his beard with wine;

“I had rather live in Lapland,

Than that Swabian land of thine!

“The goodliest land on all this earth,

It is the Saxon land!

There have I as many maidens

As fingers on this hand!”

“Hold your tongues! both Swabian and Saxon!”

A bold Bohemian cries;

“If there’s a heaven upon this earth,

In Bohemia it lies.

“There the tailor blows the flute,

And the cobbler blows the horn,

And the miner blows the bugle,

Over mountain gorge and bourn.”

* * * * *

And then the landlord’s daughter

Up to heaven raised her hand,

And said, “Ye may no more contend,—

There lies the happiest land!”

WHITHER?

FROM MÜLLER.

I heard a brooklet gushing

From its rocky fountain near,

Down into the valley rushing,

So fresh and wondrous clear.

I know not what came o’er me,

Nor who the counsel gave;

But I must hasten downward,

All with my pilgrim-stave.

Downward, and ever farther,

And ever the brook beside;

And ever fresher murmured,

And ever clearer, the tide.

Is this the way I was going?

Whither, O brooklet, say!

Thou hast, with thy soft murmur,

Murmured my senses away.

What do I say of a murmur?

That can no murmur be;

’Tis the water-nymphs that are singing

Their roundelays under me.

Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur,

And wander merrily near;

The wheels of a mill are going

In every brooklet clear.

BEWARE!

I know a maiden fair to see,

Take care!

She can both false and friendly be,

Beware! Beware!

Trust her not,

She is fooling thee!

She has two eyes, so soft and brown,

Take care!

She gives a side-glance and looks down,

Beware! Beware!

Trust her not,

She is fooling thee!

And she has hair of a golden hue,

Take care!

And what she says, it is not true,

Beware! Beware!

Trust her not,

She is fooling thee!

She has a bosom as white as snow,

Take care!

She knows how much it is best to show,

Beware! Beware!

Trust her not,

She is fooling thee!

She gives thee a garland woven fair,

Take care!

It is a fool’s-cap for thee to wear,

Beware! Beware!

Trust her not,

She is fooling thee!

SONG OF THE BELL.

Bell! thou soundest merrily,

When the bridal party

To the church doth hie!

Bell! thou soundest solemnly,

When, on Sabbath morning,

Fields deserted lie!

Bell! thou soundest merrily;

Tellest thou at evening,

Bed-time draweth nigh!

Bell! thou soundest mournfully;

Tellest thou the bitter

Parting hath gone by!

Say! how canst thou mourn?

How canst thou rejoice?

Thou art but metal dull!

And yet all our sorrowings,

And all our rejoicings,

Thou dost feel them all!

God hath wonders many,

Which we cannot fathom,

Placed within thy form!

When the heart is sinking,

Thou alone canst raise it,

Trembling in the storm!

THE DEAD.

FROM STOCKMANN.

How they so softly rest,

All, all the holy dead,

Unto whose dwelling-place

Now doth my soul draw near!

How they so softly rest,

All in their silent graves,

Deep to corruption

Slowly down sinking!

And they no longer weep,

Here, where complaint is still!

And they no longer feel,

Here, where all gladness flies!

And by the cypresses

Softly o’ershadowed,

Until the Angel

Calls them, they slumber!

THE CASTLE BY THE SEA.

FROM UHLAND.

“Hast thou seen that lordly castle,

That Castle by the Sea?

Golden and red above it

The clouds float gorgeously.

“And fain it would stoop downward

To the mirrored wave below;

And fain it would soar upward

In the evening’s crimson glow.”

“Well have I seen that castle,

That Castle by the Sea,

And the moon above it standing,

And the mist rise solemnly.”

“The winds and the waves of ocean,

Had they a merry chime?

Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers,

The harp and the minstrel’s rhyme?”

“The winds and the waves of ocean,

They rested quietly;

But I heard on the gale a sound of wail,

And tears came to mine eye.”

“And sawest thou on the turrets

The King and his royal bride!

And the wave of their crimson mantles?

And the golden crown of pride?

“Led they not forth, in rapture,

A beauteous maiden there?

Resplendent as the morning sun,

Beaming with golden hair?”

“Well saw I the ancient parents;

Without the crown of pride;

They were moving slow, in weeds of woe,

No maiden was by their side!”

WANDERER’S NIGHT-SONGS.

FROM GOETHE.

I.

Thou that from the heaven’s art,

Every pain and sorrow stillest,

And the doubly wretched heart

Doubly with refreshment fillest.

I am weary with contending!

Why this rapture and unrest?

Peace descending

Come, ah, come into my breast!

II.

O’er all the hill-tops

Is quiet now,

In all the tree-tops

Hearest thou

Hardly a breath;

The birds are asleep in the trees.

Wait; soon like these

Thou too shalt rest.

THE BLACK KNIGHT.

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND.

’Twas Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness,

When woods and fields put off all sadness,

Thus began the King and spake;

“So from the halls

Of ancient Hofburgh’s walls,

A luxuriant spring shall break.”

Drums and trumpets echo loudly,

Wave the crimson banners proudly.

From balcony the King looked on;

In the play of spears,

Fell all the cavaliers,

Before the monarch’s stalwart son.

To the barrier of the fight

Rode at last a sable Knight.

“Sir Knight! your name and scutcheon say!”

“Should I speak it here,

Ye would stand aghast with fear;

I am a Prince of mighty sway!”

When he rode into the lists,

The arch of heaven grew black with mists,

And the castle ’gan to rock.

At the first blow,

Fell the youth from saddle-bow,

Hardly rises from the shock.

Pipe and viol call the dances,

Torch-light through the high hall glances;

Waves a mighty shadow in;

With manner bland

Doth ask the maiden’s hand,

Doth with her the dance begin;

Danced in sable iron sark,

Danced a measure weird and dark,

Coldly clasped her limbs around.

From breast and hair

Down fall from her the fair

Flowerets, faded, to the ground.

To the sumptuous banquet came

Every Knight and every Dame.

’Twixt son and daughter all distraught,

With mournful mind

The ancient King reclined,

Gazed at them in silent thought.

Pale the children both did look,

But the guest a beaker took;

“Golden wine will make you whole!”

The children drank,

Gave many a courteous thank;

“Oh, that draught was very cool!”

Each the father’s breast embraces,

Son and daughter; and their faces

Colourless grow utterly.

Whichever way

Looks the fear-struck father grey,

He beholds his children die.

“Woe! the blessed children both

Takest thou in the joy of youth;

Take me, too, the joyless father!”

Spake the grim Guest,

From his hollow, cavernous breast,

“Roses in the spring I gather!”

SILENT LOVE.

Who love would seek,

Let him love evermore

And seldom speak;

For in love’s domain

Silence must reign;

Or it brings the heart

Smart

And pain.

THE LUCK OF EDENHALL.

FROM UHLAND.

[The tradition upon which this ballad is founded, and the “shards

of the Luck of Edenhall,” still exist in England. The goblet is in

the possession of Sir Christopher Musgrave, Bart., of Eden Hall,

Cumberland; and is not so entirely shattered as the ballad leaves it.]

Of Edenhall, the youthful lord

Bids sound the festal trumpet’s call;

He rises at the banquet board,

And cries, ’mid the drunken revellers all,

“Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall!”

The butler hears the words with pain,

The house’s oldest seneschal

Takes slow from its silken cloth again

The drinking glass of crystal tall;

They call it the Luck of Edenhall.

Then said the lord: “This glass to praise,

Fill with red wine from Portugal!”

The grey-beard with trembling hand obeys;

A purple light shines over all,

It beams from the Luck of Edenhall.

Then speaks the lord, and waves it light,

“This glass of flashing crystal tall

Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite;

She wrote in it: _If this glass doth fall,

Farewell then, O Luck of Edenhall_!

“’Twas right a goblet the Fate should be

Of the joyous race of Edenhall!

Deep draughts drink we right willingly;

And willingly ring, with merry call,

Kling! klang! to the Luck of Edenhall!”

First rings it deep, and full, and mild,

Like to the sound of a nightingale;

Then like the roar of a torrent wild;

Then mutters at last like the thunder’s fall,

The glorious Luck of Edenhall.

“For its keeper takes a race of might,

The fragile goblet of crystal tall;

It has lasted longer than is right;

Kling! klang! with a harder blow than all

Will I try the Luck of Edenhall!”

As the goblet ringing flies apart,

Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall;

And through the rift, the wild flames start;

The guests in dust are scattered all,

With the breaking Luck of Edenhall!

In storms the foe, with fire and sword;

He in the night had scaled the wall,

Slain by the sword lies the youthful Lord,

But holds in his hand the crystal tall,

The shattered Luck of Edenhall.

On the morrow the butler gropes alone,

The grey-beard in the desert-hall,

He seeks his lord’s burnt skeleton,

He seeks in the dismal ruin’s fall

The shards of the Luck of Edenhall.

“The stone wall,” saith he, “doth fall aside,

Down must the stately columns fall;

Glass is this earth’s Luck and Pride;

In atoms shall fall this earthly ball

One day like the Luck of Edenhall!”

THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR.

FROM PFIZER.

A youth, light-hearted and content,

I wander through the world:

Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent,

And straight again is furled.

Yet oft I dream, that once a wife

Close in my heart was locked,

And in the sweet repose of life

A blessed child I rocked.

I wake! Away that dream,—away!

Too long did it remain!

So long, that both by night and day

It ever comes again.

The end lies ever in my thought;

To a grave so cold and deep

The mother beautiful was brought;

Then dropt the child asleep.

But now the dream is wholly o’er,

I bathe mine eyes and see;

And wander through the world once more,

A youth so light and free.

Two locks,—and they are wondrous fair,—

Left me that vision mild;

The brown is from the mother’s hair,

The blonde is from the child.

And when I see that lock of gold,

Pale grows the evening-red;

And when the dark lock I behold,

I wish that I were dead.

REMORSE.

FROM GRAF VON PLATEN.

How I started up in the night, in the night,

Drawn on without rest or reprieval,

The streets, with their watchmen, were lost to my sight

As I wandered so light

In the night, in the night,

Through the gate with the arch mediæval.

The mill-brook rushed through the rocky height,

I leaned o’er the bridge in my yearning;

Deep under me watched I the waves in their flight,

As they glided so light

In the night, in the night,

Yet backward not one was returning.

O’erhead were revolving, so countless and bright,

The stars in melodious existence;

And with them the moon, more serenely bedight;—

They sparkled so light

In the night, in the night,

Through the magical measureless distance.

And upward I gazed, in the night, in the night,

And again on the waves in their fleeting;

Ah woe! thou hast wasted thy days in delight,

Now silence thou light

In the night, in the night,

The Remorse in thy heart that is beating.

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE DANISH.

KING CHRISTIAN.

A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK.—FROM JOHANNES EVALD.

King Christian stood by the lofty mast

In mist and smoke;

His sword was hammering so fast,

Through Gothic helm and brain it passed;

Then sank each hostile hulk and mast,

In mist and smoke.

“Fly!” shouted they, “fly, he who can!

Who braves of Denmark’s Christian

The stroke?”

Nils Juel gave heed to the tempest’s roar;

Now is the hour!

He hoisted his blood-red flag once more,

And smote upon the foe full sore,

And shouted loud through the tempest’s roar,

“Now is the hour!”

“Fly!” shouted they, “for shelter fly!

Of Denmark’s Juel who can defy

The power?”

North Sea! a glimpse of Wessel rent

Thy murky sky!

Then champions to thine arms were sent;

Terror and Death glared where he went;

From the waves was heard a wail, that rent

Thy murky sky!

From Denmark, thunders Tordenskiol’,

Let each to Heaven commend his soul,

And fly!

Path of the Dane to fame and might!

Dark-rolling wave!

Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight,

Goes to meet danger with despite,

Proudly as thou the tempest’s might,

Dark-rolling wave!

And amid pleasures and alarms,

And war and victory, be thine arms

My grave!

THE ELECTED KNIGHT.

[The following strange and somewhat mystical ballad is from Nyerup and

Rahbek’s _Danske Viser_ of the Middle Ages. It seems to refer to the

first preaching of Christianity in the North, and to the institution

of Knight-Errantry. The three maidens I suppose to be Faith, Hope,

and Charity. The irregularities of the original have been carefully

preserved in the translation.]

Sir Oluf he rideth over the plain,

Full seven miles broad and seven miles wide,

But never, ah never, can meet with the man

A tilt with him dare ride.

He saw under the hill-side

A Knight full well equipped;

His steed was black, his helm was barred;

He was riding at full speed.

He wore upon his spurs

Twelve little golden birds;

Anon he spurred his steed with a clang,

And there sat all the birds and sang.

He wore upon his mail

Twelve little golden wheels;

Anon in eddies the wild wind blew,

And round and round the wheels they flew.

He wore before his breast

A lance that was poised in rest;

And it was sharper than diamond-stone,

It made Sir Oluf’s heart to groan.

He wore upon his helm

A wreath of ruddy gold;

And that gave him the Maidens Three,

The youngest was fair to behold.

Sir Oluf questioned the Knight eftsoon

If he were come from heaven down;

“Art thou Christ of Heaven?” quoth he,

“So will I yield me unto thee.”

“I am not Christ the Great,

Thou shalt not yield thee yet;

I am an Unknown Knight,

Three modest Maidens have me bedight.”

“Art thou a Knight elected,

And have three Maidens thee bedight;

So shalt thou ride a tilt this day,

For all the Maidens’ honour!”

The first tilt they together rode

They put their steeds to the test;

The second tilt they together rode,

They proved their manhood best;

The third tilt they together rode,

Neither of them would yield;

The fourth tilt they together rode,

They both fell on the field.

Now lie the lords upon the plain.

And their blood runs unto death;

Now sit the Maidens in the high tower.

The youngest sorrows till death.

CHILDHOOD.

There was a time when I was very small,

When my whole frame was but an ell in height,

Sweetly, as I recall it, tears do fall,

And therefore I recall it with delight.

I sported in my tender mother’s arms,

And rode a-horseback on best father’s knee;

Alike were sorrows, passions, and alarms,

And gold, and Greek, and love, unknown to me.

Then seemed to me this world far less in size,

Likewise it seemed to me less wicked far;

Like points in heaven, I saw the stars arise,

And longed for wings that I might catch a star.

I saw the moon behind the island fade,

And thought, “O, were I on that island there,

I could find out of what the moon is made,

Find out how large it is, how round, how fair!”

Wondering, I saw God’s sun through western skies,

Sink in the ocean’s golden lap at night,

And yet upon the morrow early rise,

And paint the eastern heaven with crimson light;

And thought of God, the gracious Heavenly Father,

Who made me, and that lovely sun on high,

And all those pearls of heaven thick-strung together,

Dropped, clustering, from his hand o’er all the sky.

With childish reverence, my young lips did say

The prayer my pious mother taught to me;

“O Gentle God! O, let me strive alway

Still to be wise, and good, and follow thee!”

So prayed I for my father and my mother,

And for my sister, and for all the town;

The king I knew not, and the beggar-brother,

Who, bent with age, went, sighing, up and down.

They perished, the blithe days of boyhood perished,

And all the gladness, all the peace I knew!

Now have I but their memory, fondly cherished;—

God! may I never, never, lose that too!

MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS.

THE FUGITIVE.

TARTAR SONG, FROM THE PROSE VERSION OF CHODZKO.

I.

“He is gone to the desert land!

I can see the shining mane

Of his horse on the distant plain,

As he rides with his Kossak band!

“Come back, rebellious one!

Let thy proud heart relent;

Come back to my tall, white tent,

Come back, my only son!

“Thy hand in freedom shall

Cast thy hawks, when morning breaks,

On the swans of the Seven Lakes,

On the lakes of Karajal.

“I will give thee leave to stray

And pasture thy hunting steeds

In the long grass and the reeds

Of the meadows of Karaday.

“I will give thee my coat of mail,

Of softest leather made,

With choicest steel inlaid;

Will not all this prevail?”

II.

“This hand no longer shall

Cast my hawks when morning breaks,

On the swans of the Seven Lakes,

On the lakes of Karajal.

“I will no longer stray

And pasture my hunting steeds

In the long grass and the reeds

Of the meadows of Karaday.

“Though thou give me thy coat of mail,

Of softest leather made,

With choicest steel inlaid,

All this cannot prevail.

“What right hast thou, O Khan,

To me, who am mine own,

Who am slave to God alone,

And not to any man?

“God will appoint the day

When I again shall be

By the blue, shallow sea,

Where the steel-bright sturgeons play.

“God, who doth care for me,

In the barren wilderness,

On unknown hills, no less

Will my companion be.

“When I wander, lonely and lost,

In the wind; when I watch at night

Like a hungry wolf, and am white

And covered with hoar-frost;

“Yea, wheresoever I be,

In the yellow desert sands,

In mountains or unknown lands,

Allah will care for me!”

III.

Then Sobra, the old, old man,—

Three hundred and sixty years

Had he lived in this land of tears,

Bowed down and said, “O Khan!”

“If you bid me, I will speak.

There’s no sap in dry grass,

No marrow in dry bones! Alas,

The mind of old men is weak!

“I am old, I am very old:

I have seen the primeval man,

I have seen the great Gengis Khan

Arrayed in his robes of gold.

“What I say to you is the truth;

And I say to you, O Khan,

Pursue not the star-white man,

Pursue not the beautiful youth.

“Him the Almighty made,

And brought him forth of the light,

At the verge and end of the night,

When men on the mountain prayed.

“He was born at the break of day,

When abroad the angels walk;

He hath listened to their talk,

And he knoweth what they say.

“Gifted with Allah’s grace,

Like the moon of Ramazan

When it shines in the skies, O Khan,

Is the light of his beautiful face.

“When first on earth he trod,

The first words that he said

Were these, as he stood and prayed,

There is no God but God!

“And he shall be king of men,

For Allah hath heard his prayer,

And the Archangel in the air,

Gabriel, hath said, Amen!”

TO THE STORK.

ARMENIAN POPULAR SONG, FROM THE PROSE VERSION OF ALISHAN.

Welcome, O Stork! that dost wing

Thy flight from the far-away!

Thou hast brought us the signs of Spring,

Thou hast made our sad hearts gay.

Descend, O Stork! descend

Upon our roof to rest;

In our ash-tree, O my friend,

My darling, make thy nest.

To thee, O Stork, I complain,

O Stork, to thee I impart

The thousand sorrows, the pain

And aching of my heart.

When thou away didst go,

Away from this tree of ours,

The withering winds did blow,

And dried up all the flowers.

Dark grew the brilliant sky,

Cloudy and dark and drear;

They were breaking the snow on high,

And winter was drawing near.

From Varaca’s rocky wall,

From the rock of Varaca unrolled,

The snow came and covered all,

And the green meadow was cold.

O Stork, our garden with snow

Was hidden away and lost,

And the rose-trees that in it grow

Were withered by snow and frost.

THE BOY AND THE BROOK.

ARMENIAN POPULAR SONG, FROM THE PROSE VERSION OF ALISHAN.

Down from yon distant mountain height

The brooklet flows through the village street;

A boy comes forth to wash his hands,

Washing, yes washing, there he stands,

In the water cool and sweet.

“Brook, from what mountain dost thou come?

O my brooklet cool and sweet!”

“I come from yon mountain high and cold,

Where lieth the new snow on the old,

And melts in the summer heat.”

“Brook, to what river dost thou go?

O my brooklet cool and sweet!”

“I go to the river there below

Where in bunches the violets grow,

And sun and shadow meet.”

“Brook, to what garden dost thou go?

O my brooklet cool and sweet!”

“I go to that garden in the vale

Where all night long the nightingale

Her love-song doth repeat.”

“Brook, to what fountain dost thou go?

O my brooklet cool and sweet!”

“I go to that fountain, at whose brink

The maid that loves thee comes to drink,

And, whenever she looks therein,

I rise to meet her, and kiss her chin,

And my joy is then complete.”

THE SIEGE OF KAZAN.

TARTAR SONG, FROM THE PROSE VERSION OF CHODZKO.

Black are the moors before Kazan,

And their stagnant waters smell of blood:

I said in my heart, with horse and man,

I will swim across this shallow flood.

Under the feet of Argamack,

Like new moons were the shoes he bare,

Silken trappings hung on his back,

In a talisman on his neck, a prayer.

My warriors, thought I, are following me;

But when I looked behind, alas!

Not one of all the band could I see,

All had sunk in the black morass!

Where are our shallow fords? and where

The power of Kazan with its fourfold gates?

From the prison windows our maidens fair

Talk of us still through the iron grates.

We cannot hear them; for horse and man

Lie buried deep in the dark abyss!

Ah! the black day hath come down on Kazan!

Ah! was ever a grief like this?

COLUMBUS.

A TRANSLATION FROM SCHILLER.

The following lines, hitherto unpublished, were written for Charles

Sumner, and were read July 4, at Roseland Park, Woodstock, Connecticut:—

I.

Steer, bold mariner, on! albeit witlings deride thee

And the steersman drop idly his hand at the helm;

Ever, ever to Westward! There must the coast be discovered,

If it but lie distinct, luminous lie in thy mind.

II.

Trust to the God that leads thee, and follow the sea that is silent;

Did it not yet exist, now would it rise from the flood.

Nature with Genius stands united in league everlasting;

What is promised to one, surely the other performs.

Notes.

Page 31. _All the Foresters of Flanders._

The title of Foresters was given to the early governors of Flanders,

appointed by the kings of France. Lyderick du Bucq, in the days of

Clotaire the Second, was the first of them; and Beaudoin Bras-de-Fer,

who stole away the fair Judith, daughter of Charles the Bald, from the

French court, and married her in Bruges, was the last. After him, the

title of Forester was changed to that of Count. Philippe d’Alsace, Guy

de Dampierre, and Louis de Crécy, coming later in the order of time,

were therefore rather Counts than Foresters. Philippe went twice to the

Holy Land as a Crusader, and died of the plague at St. Jean-d’Acre,

shortly after the capture of the city by the Christians. Guy de

Dampierre died in the prison of Compiègne. Louis de Crécy was son and

successor of Robert de Béthune, who strangled his wife, Yolande de

Burgogne, with the bridle of his horse, for having poisoned, at the age

of eleven years, Charles, his son by his first wife, Blanche d’Anjou.

Page 31. _Stately dames like queens attended._

When Philippe-le-Bel, king of France, visited Flanders with his queen,

she was so astonished at the magnificence of the dames of Bruges, that

she exclaimed, “Je croyais être seule reine ici, mais il paraît que

ceux de Flandre qui se trouvent dans nos prisons sont tous des princes,

car leurs femmes sont habillées comme des princesses et des reines.”

When the burgomasters of Ghent, Bruges, and Ypres went to Paris to

pay homage to King John, in 1351, they were received with great pomp

and distinction; but, being invited to a festival, they observed that

their seats at table were not furnished with cushions; whereupon, to

make known their displeasure at this want of regard to their dignity,

they folded their richly-embroidered cloaks and seated themselves upon

them. On rising from table, they left their cloaks behind them, and,

being informed of their apparent forgetfulness, Simon van Eertrycke,

burgomaster of Bruges, replied: “We Flemings are not in the habit of

carrying away our cushions after dinner.”

Page 31. _Knights who bore the Fleece of Gold._

Philippe de Burgogne, surnamed Le Bon, espoused Isabella of Portugal,

on the 10th of January 1430; and on the same day instituted the famous

order of the Fleece of Gold.

Page 31. _I beheld the gentle Mary._

Marie de Valois, Duchess of Burgundy, was left by the death of her

father, Charles-le-Téméraire, at the age of twenty, the richest heiress

of Europe. She came to Bruges, as Countess of Flanders, in 1477, and

in the same year was married by proxy to the Archduke Maximilian.

According to the custom of the time, the Duke of Bavaria, Maximilian’s

substitute, slept with the princess. They were both in complete dress,

separated by a naked sword, and attended by four armed guards. Marie

was adored by her subjects for her gentleness and her many other

virtues.

Maximilian was the son of the Emperor Frederick the Third, and is the

same person mentioned afterwards in the poem of _Nuremberg_ as the

Kaiser Maximilian, and the hero of Pfinzing’s poem of _Teuerdank_.

Having been imprisoned by the revolted burghers of Bruges, they refused

to release him, till he consented to kneel in the public square, and to

swear on the Holy Evangelists and the body of Saint Donatus, that he

would not take vengeance upon them for their rebellion.

Page 31. _The bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold._

This battle, the most memorable in Flemish history, was fought under

the walls of Courtray, on the 11th of July 1302, between the French and

the Flemings, the former commanded by Robert, Comte d’Artois, and the

latter by Guillaume de Juliers, and Jean, Comte de Namur. The French

army was completely routed, with a loss of twenty thousand infantry and

seven thousand cavalry, among whom were sixty-three princes, dukes, and

counts, seven hundred lords-banneret, and eleven hundred noblemen. The

flower of the French nobility perished on that day; to which history

has given the name of the _Journée des Eperons d’Or_, from the great

number of golden spurs found on the field of battle. Seven hundred of

them were hung up as a trophy in the church of Notre Dame de Courtray;

and as the cavaliers of that day wore but a single spur each, these

vouched to God for the violent and bloody death of seven hundred of his

creatures.

Page 31. _Saw the fight at Minnewater._

When the inhabitants of Bruges were digging a canal at Minnewater

to bring the waters of the Lys from Deynze to their city, they were

attacked and routed by the citizens of Ghent, whose commerce would have

been much injured by the canal. They were led by Jean Lyons, captain

of a military company at Ghent, called the _Chaperons Blancs_. He had

great sway over the turbulent populace, who, in those prosperous times

of the city, gained an easy livelihood by labouring two or three days

in the week, and had the remaining four or five to devote to public

affairs. The fight at Minnewater was followed by open rebellion against

Louis de Maele, the Count of Flanders and Protector of Bruges. His

superb château of Wondelghem was pillaged and burnt, and the insurgents

forced the gates of Bruges, and entered in triumph, with Lyons mounted

at their head. A few days afterwards he died suddenly, perhaps by

poison.

Meanwhile the insurgents received a check at the village of Nevèle;

and two hundred of them perished in the church, which was burnt by the

Count’s orders. One of the chiefs, Jean de Lannoy, took refuge in the

belfry. From the summit of the tower he held forth his purse filled

with gold, and begged for deliverance. It was in vain. His enemies

cried to him from below to save himself as best he might; and, half

suffocated with smoke and flame, he threw himself from the tower, and

perished at their feet. Peace was soon afterwards established, and the

Count retired to faithful Bruges.

Page 35. _In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture

rare._

This pix, or tabernacle for the vessels of the sacrament, is by the

hand of Adam Kraft. It is an exquisite piece of sculpture, in white

stone, and rises to the height of sixty-four feet. It stands in the

choir, whose richly-painted windows cover it with varied colours.

Page 56. _As Lope says._

“La cólera

de un Español sentado no se templa,

si no le representan en dos horas

hasta el final juicio desde el Génesis.”

_Lope de Vega._

Page 58. _Abernuncio Satanas._

“Digo, Señora, respondió Sancho, lo que tengo dicho, que de los azotes

abernuncio. Abrenuncio habeis de decir, Sancho, y no como decis, dijo

el Duque.”—_Don Quixote_, Part ii. c. xxxv.

Page 64. _Fray Carillo._

The allusion here is to a Spanish epigram.

“Siempre, Fray Carrillo, estás

cansándonos acá fuera;

quién en tu celda estuviera

para no verte jamás!”

_Böhl de Faber._ _Floresta_, No. 611.

Page 64. _Padre Francisco._

This is from an Italian popular song.

“‘Padre Francesco,

Padre Francesco!’

—Cosa volete del Padre Francesco—

‘V’è una bella ragazzina

Che si vuole confessar!‘

Fatte l’entrare, fatte l’entrare!

Che la voglio confessare!”

_Kopisch._ _Volksthümliche Poesien aus allen Mundarten

Italiens und seiner Inseln_, p. 194.

Page 65. _Ave! cujus calcem clare._

From a monkish hymn of the twelfth century, in Sir Alexander Croke’s

_Essay on the Origin, Progress, and Decline of Rhyming Latin Verse_, p.

109.

Page 73. _Asks if his money-bags would rise._

“Y volviéndome á un lado, ví á un Avariento, que estaba preguntando

á otro (que por haber sido embalsamado, y estar léxos sus tripas, no

hablaba porque no habian llegado si habian de resucitar aquel dia todos

los enterrados), si resucitarian unos bolsones suyos?”—_El Sueño de las

Calaveras._

Page 74. _The river of his thoughts._

This expression is from Dante:—

“Si che chiaro

Per essa scenda della mente il fiume.”

Byron has likewise used the expression; though I do not recollect in

which of his poems. [_The Dream._—EDITOR.]

Page 75. _Mari Franca._

“Porque casó Mari Franca

cuatro leguas de Salamanca.”

Page 75. _Ay, soft, emerald eyes._

The Spaniards, with good reason, consider this colour of the eye as

beautiful, and celebrate it in song; as, for example, in the well-known

_Villancico_:—

“Ay ojuelos verdes,

ay los mis ojuelos,

ay hagan los cielos

que de mí te acuerdes!

* * * * *

Tengo confianza

de mis verdes ojos.”

_Böhl de Faber._ _Floresta_, No. 255.

Dante speaks of Beatrice’s eyes as emeralds. _Purgatorio_, xxxi. 116.

Lami says, in his _Annotazioni_, “Erano i suoi occhi d’ un turchino

verdiccio, simie a quel del mare.”

Page 76. _The Avenging Child._

See the ancient ballads of _El Infante Vengador_, and _Calaynos_.

Page 76. _All are sleeping._

From the Spanish. _Böhl’s Floresta_, No. 282.

Page 85. _Good Night!_

From the Spanish; as are likewise the songs immediately following, and

that which commences the first scene of Act III.

Page 95. _The evil eye._

“In the Gitano language, casting the evil eye is called _Querelar

Nasula_, which simply means making sick, and which, according to the

common superstition, is accomplished by casting an evil look at people,

especially children, who, from the tenderness of their constitution,

are supposed to be more easily blighted than those of a more mature

age. After receiving the evil glance, they fall sick, and die in a few

hours.

“The Spaniards have very little to say respecting the evil eye, though

the belief in it is very prevalent, especially in Andalusia, amongst

the lower orders. A stag’s horn is considered a good safeguard, and on

that account a small horn, tipped with silver, is frequently attached

to the children’s necks by means of a cord braided from the hair of

a black mare’s tail. Should the evil glance be cast, it is imagined

that the horn receives it, and instantly snaps asunder. Such horns may

be purchased in some of the silversmiths’ shops at Seville.”—BORROW’S

_Zincali_, vol. i. c. ix.

Page 96. _On the top of a mountain I stand._

This and the following scraps of song are from Borrow’s _Zincali; or,

An Account of the Gipsies in Spain_.

Page 103. _If thou art sleeping, maiden._

From the Spanish; as is likewise the song of the Contrabandista below.

Page 158.

_For these bells have been anointed

And baptized with holy water_!

The Consecration and Baptism of Bells is one of the most curious

ceremonies of the Church in the Middle Ages. The Council of Cologne

ordained as follows:—

“Let the bells be blessed, as the trumpets of the Church militant, by

which the people are assembled to hear the word of God; the clergy to

announce his mercy by day, and his truth in their nocturnal vigils:

that by their sound the faithful may be invited to prayers, and that

the spirit of devotion in them may be increased. The fathers have

also maintained that demons affrighted by the sound of bells calling

Christians to prayers, would flee away; and when they fled, the persons

of the faithful would be secure: that the destruction of lightnings

and whirlwinds would be averted, and the spirits of the storm

defeated.”—_Edinburgh Encyclopædia_, Art. “Bells.” See also Scheible’s

_Kloster_, vi. 776.

Page 178. _It is the malediction of Eve_!

“Nec esses plus quam femina, quæ nunc etiam viros transcendis, et quæ

maledictionem Evæ in benedictionem vertisti Mariæ.”—_Epistola Abælardi

Heloissæ._

Page 194. _To come back to my text._

In giving this sermon of Friar Cuthbert, as a specimen of the _Risus

Paschales_, or street preaching of the monks at Easter, I have

exaggerated nothing. This very anecdote, offensive as it is, comes

from a discourse of Father Barletta, a Dominican friar of the fifteenth

century, whose fame as a popular preacher was so great, that it gave

rise to the proverb—

_Nescit predicare

Qui nescit Barettare._

“Among the abuses introduced in this century,” says Tiraboschi, “was

that of exciting from the pulpit the laughter of the hearers; as if

that were the same thing as converting them. We have examples of this

not only in Italy, but also in France, where the sermons of Menot and

Maillard, and of others, who would make a better appearance on the

stage than in the pulpit, are still celebrated for such follies.”

If the reader is curious to see how far the freedom of speech was

carried in these popular sermons, he is referred to Scheible’s

_Kloster_, vol. i., where he will find extracts from Abraham à Sancta

Clara, Sebastian, Frank, and others; and, in particular, an anonymous

discourse called _Der Gräuel der Verwüstung_—The Abomination of

Desolation—preached at Ottakring, a village west of Vienna, November

25, 1782, in which the licence of language is carried to its utmost

limit.

See also _Prédicatoriana, ou Révélations singulières et amusantes sur

les Prédicateurs; par G. P. Philomneste_. (Menin.) This work contains

extracts from the popular sermons of St. Vincent Ferrier, Barletta,

Menot, Maillard, Marini, Raulin, Valladier, De Besse, Camus, Père

André, Bening, and the most eloquent of all, Jacques Brydaine.

My authority for the spiritual interpretation of bell-ringing, which

follows, is Durandus, _Ration_. _Divin Offic._, Lib. i. cap. 4.

Page 197. THE NATIVITY: A Miracle-Play.

The earliest mystery or religious play which has been preserved is the

_Christos Paschon_ of Gregory Nazianzen, written in Greek in the fourth

century. Next to this come the remarkable Latin plays of Roswitha,

the nun of Gandersheim, in the tenth century, which, though crude,

and wanting in artistic construction, are marked by a good deal of

dramatic power and interest. A handsome edition of these plays, with a

French translation, has been lately published, entitled, _Théatre de

Rotsvitha, Religieuse Allemande du Xᵉ Siècle_. _Par Charles Magnin._

Paris, 1845.

The most important collections of English Mysteries and Miracle-Plays

are those known as the Townley, the Chester, and the Coventry plays.

The first of these collections has been published by the Surtees

Society, and the other two by the Shakespeare Society. In his

introduction to the Coventry Mysteries, the editor, Mr. Halliwell,

quotes the following passage from Dugdale’s _Antiquities of

Warwickshire_:—

“Before the suppression of the monasteries, this city was very famous

for the pageants that were played therein, upon Corpus Christi day;

which, occasioning very great confluence of people thither, from

far and near, was of no small benefit thereto; which pageants being

acted with mighty state and reverence by the friars of this house,

had theatres for the several scenes, very large and high, placed

upon wheels, and drawn to all the eminent parts of the city, for the

better advantage of the spectators; and contained the story of the

New Testament, composed into old English Rithme, as appeareth by an

ancient MS., intituled _Ludus Corporis Christi_, or _Ludus Conventriæ_.

I have been told by some old people, who in their younger years were

eye-witnesses of these pageants so acted, that the yearly confluence of

people to see that show was extraordinary great, and yielded no small

advantage to this city.”

The representation of religious plays has not yet been wholly

discontinued by the Roman Church. At Ober-Ammergau in the Tyrol, a

grand spectacle of this kind is exhibited once in ten years. A very

graphic description of that which took place in the year 1850 is given

by Miss Anna Mary Howitt, in her _Art-Student in Munich_, vol. i. chap.

iv. She says:—

“We had come expecting to feel our souls revolt at so material a

representation of Christ, as any representation of him we naturally

imagined must be in a peasant’s Miracle-Play. Yet so far, strange to

confess, neither horror, disgust, nor contempt was excited in our

minds. Such an earnest solemnity and simplicity breathed throughout the

whole of the performance, that to me, at least, anything like anger, or

a perception of the ludicrous, would have seemed more irreverent on my

part than was this simple, childlike rendering of the sublime Christian

tragedy. We felt at times as though the figures of Cimabue’s, Giotto’s,

and Perugino’s pictures had become animated, and were moving before us;

there was the same simple arrangement and brilliant colour of drapery;

the same earnest, quiet dignity about the heads, whilst the entire

absence of all theatrical effect wonderfully increased the illusion.

There were scenes and groups so extraordinarily like the early Italian

pictures, that you could have declared they were the works of Giotto

and Perugino, and not living men and women, had not the figures moved

and spoken, and the breeze stirred their richly-coloured drapery, and

the sun cast long, moving shadows behind them on the stage. These

effects of sunshine and shadow, and of drapery fluttered by the wind,

were very striking and beautiful; one could imagine how the Greeks must

have availed themselves of such striking effects in their theatres open

to the sky.”

Mr. Bayard Taylor, in his _Eldorado_, gives a description of a Mystery

he saw performed at San Lionel, in Mexico. See vol. ii. chap. xi.

“Against the wing-wall of the Hacienda del Mayo, which occupied one end

of the plaza, was raised a platform, on which stood a table covered

with scarlet cloth. A rude bower of cane-leaves, on one end of the

platform, represented the manger of Bethlehem; while a cord, stretched

from its top across the plaza to a hole in the front of the church,

bore a large tinsel star suspended by a hole in its centre. There

was quite a crowd in the plaza, and very soon a procession appeared,

coming up from the lower part of the village. The three kings took the

lead; the Virgin, mounted on an ass that gloried in a gilded saddle

and rose-besprinked mane and tail, followed them, led by the angel;

and several women, with curious masks of paper, brought up the rear.

Two characters of the harlequin sort—one with a dog’s head on his

shoulders, and the other a bald-headed friar, with a huge hat hanging

on his back—played all sorts of antics for the diversion of the crowd.

After making the circuit of the plaza, the Virgin was taken to the

platform, and entered the manger. King Herod took his seat at the

scarlet table, with an attendant in blue coat and red sash, whom I took

to be his Prime Minister. The three kings remained on their horses

in front of the church; but between them and the platform, under the

string on which the star was to slide, walked two men in long white

robes and blue hoods, with parchment folios in their hands. These were

the Wise Men of the East, as one might readily know from their solemn

air, and the mysterious glances which they cast towards all quarters of

the heavens.

“In a little while, a company of women on the platform, concealed

behind a curtain, sang an angelic chorus to the tune of ‘O pescator

dell’ onda.’ At the proper moment, the Magi turned towards the

platform, followed by the star, to which a string was conveniently

attached, that it might be slid along the line. The three kings

followed the star till it reached the manger, when they dismounted, and

inquired for the sovereign whom it had led them to visit. They were

invited upon the platform and introduced to Herod, as the only king;

this did not seem to satisfy them, and, after some conversation, they

retired. By this time the star had receded to the other end of the

line, and commenced moving forward again, they following. The angel

called them into the manger, where, upon their knees, they were shown

a small wooden box, supposed to contain the sacred infant; they then

retired, and the star brought them back no more. After this departure,

King Herod declared himself greatly confused by what he had witnessed,

and was very much afraid this newly-found king would weaken his

power. Upon consultation with his Prime Minister, the Massacre of the

Innocents was decided upon as the only means of security.

“The angel, on hearing this, gave warning to the Virgin, who quickly

got down from the platform, mounted her bespangled donkey, and hurried

off. Herod’s Prime Minister directed all the children to be handed

up for execution. A boy, in a ragged sarape, was caught and thrust

forward; the Minister took him by the heels in spite of his kicking,

and held his head on the table. The little brother and sister of the

boy, thinking he was really to be decapitated, yelled at the top of

their voices in an agony of terror, which threw the crowd into a roar

of laughter. King Herod brought down his sword with a whack on the

table, and the Prime Minister, dipping his brush into a pot of white

paint which stood before him, made a flaring cross on the boy’s face.

Several other boys were caught and served likewise; and finally,

the two harlequins, whose kicks and struggles nearly shook down the

platform. The procession then went off up the hill, followed by the

whole population of the village. All the evening there were fandangos

in the méson, bonfires and rockets on the plaza, ringing of bells,

and high mass in the church, with the accompaniment of two guitars,

tinkling to lively polkas.”

In 1852 there was a representation of this kind by Germans in

Boston; and I have now before me the copy of a playbill, announcing

the performance on June 10, 1852, in Cincinnati, of the “Great

Biblico-Historical Drama, the Life of Jesus Christ,” with the

characters and the names of the performers.

Page 211. THE SCRIPTORIUM.

A most interesting volume might be written on the Calligraphers and

Chrysographers, the transcribers and illuminators of manuscripts in

the Middle Ages. These men were for the most part monks, who laboured

sometimes for pleasure and sometimes for penance, in multiplying copies

of the classics and the Scriptures.

“Of all bodily labours which are proper for us,” says Cassiodorus, the

old Calabrian monk, “that of copying books has always been more to my

taste than any other. The more so, as in this exercise the mind is

instructed by the reading of the Holy Scriptures, and it is a kind of

homily to the others, whom these books may reach. It is preaching with

the hand, by converting the fingers into tongues: it is publishing to

men in silence the words of salvation; in fine, it is fighting against

the demon with pen and ink. As many words as a transcriber writes, so

many wounds the demon receives. In a word, a recluse, seated in his

chair to copy books, travels into different provinces, without moving

from the spot, and the labour of his hands is felt even where he is

not.”

Nearly every monastery was provided with its Scriptorium. Nicholas de

Clairvaux, St. Bernard’s secretary, in one of his letters, describes

his cell, which he calls Scriptoriolum, where he copied books. And

Mabillon, in his _Études Monastiques_, says that in his time were

still to be seen at Citeaux “many of those little cells where the

transcribers and bookbinders worked.”

Silvestre’s _Paléographie Universelle_ contains a vast number of

facsimiles of the most beautiful illuminated manuscripts of all ages

and all countries; and Montfaucon in his _Palæographia Græca_ gives the

names of over three hundred calligraphers. He also gives an account

of the books they copied, and the colophons, with which, as with a

satisfactory flourish of the pen, they closed their long-continued

labours. Many of these are very curious; expressing joy, humility,

remorse; entreating the reader’s prayers and pardon for the writer’s

sins; and sometimes pronouncing a malediction on any one who should

steal the book. A few of these I subjoin:—

“As pilgrims rejoice, beholding their native land, so are transcribers

made glad, beholding the end of a book.”

“Sweet is it to write the end of any book.”

“Ye who read, pray for me, who have written this book, the humble and

sinful Theodulus.”

“As many, therefore, as shall read this book, pardon me, I beseech you,

if aught I have erred in accent acute and grave, in apostrophe, in

breathing soft or aspirate; and may God save you all. Amen.”

“If anything is well, praise the transcriber; if ill, pardon his

unskilfulness.”

“Ye who read, pray for me, the most sinful of all men, for the Lord’s

sake.”

“The hand that has written this book shall decay, alas! and become

dust, and go down to the grave, the corrupter of all bodies. But all

ye who are of the portion of Christ, pray that I may obtain the pardon

of my sins. Again and again I beseech you with tears, brothers and

fathers, accept my miserable supplication, O holy choir! I am called

John, woe is me! I am called Hiereus, or Sacerdos, in name only, not in

unction.”

“Whoever shall carry away this book, without permission of the Pope,

may he incur the malediction of the Holy Trinity, of the Holy Mother of

God, of Saint John the Baptist, of the one hundred and eighteen holy

Nicene Fathers, and of all the Saints; the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah;

and the halter of Judas; anathema, amen.”

“Keep safe, O Trinity, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, my three fingers,

with which I have written this book.”

“Mathusalas Machir transcribed this divinest book in toil, infirmity,

and dangers many.”

“Bacchius Barbardorius and Michael Sophianus wrote this book in sport

and laughter, being the guests of their noble and common friend

Vincentius Pinellus, and Petrus Nunnius, a most learned man.”

This last colophon, Montfaucon does not suffer to pass without reproof.

“Other calligraphers,” he remarks, “demand only the prayers of their

readers, and the pardon of their sins; but these glory in their

wantonness.”

Page 217. _Drink down to your peg._

One of the canons of Archbishop Anselm, promulgated at the beginning of

the twelfth century, ordains “that priests go not to drinking bouts,

nor drink to pegs.” In the times of the hard-drinking Danes, King Edgar

ordained that “pins or nails should be fastened into the drinking-cups

or horns at stated distances, and whosoever shall drink beyond those

marks at one draught should be obnoxious to a severe punishment.”

Sharpe, in his _History of the Kings of England_, says: “Our ancestors

were formerly famous for compotation; their liquor was ale, and one

method of amusing themselves in this way was with the peg-tankard. I

had lately one of them in my hand. It had on the inside a row of eight

pins, one above another, from top to bottom. It held two quarts, and

was a noble piece of plate, so that there was a gill of ale, half a

pint, Winchester measure, between each peg. The law was, that every

person that drank was to empty the space between pin and pin, so that

the pins were so many measures to make the company all drink alike, and

to swallow the same quantity of liquor. This was a pretty sure method

of making all the company drunk, especially if it be considered that

the rule was, that whosoever drank short of his pin, or beyond it, was

obliged to drink again, and even as deep as to the next pin.”

Page 218. _The Convent of St. Gildas de Rhuys._

Abelard, in a letter to his friend Philintus, gives a sad picture

of this monastery. “I live,” he says, “in a barbarous country, the

language of which I do not understand; I have no conversation, but

with the rudest people. My walks are on the inaccessible shore of a

sea, which is perpetually stormy. My monks are only known by their

dissoluteness, and living without any rule or order. Could you see

the abbey, Philintus, you would not call it one. The doors and walls

are without any ornament, except the heads of wild boars and hinds’

feet, which are nailed up against them, and the hides of frightful

animals. The cells are hung with the skins of deer. The monks have not

so much as a bell to wake them, the cocks and dogs supply that defect.

In short, they pass their whole days in hunting: would to Heaven that

were their greatest fault, or that their pleasures terminated there!

I endeavour in vain to recall them to their duty; they all combine

against me, and I only expose myself to continual vexations and

dangers. I imagine I see every moment a naked sword hang over my head.

Sometimes they surround me, and load me with infinite abuses; sometimes

they abandon me, and I am left alone to my own tormenting thoughts. I

make it my endeavour to merit by my sufferings, and to appease an angry

God. Sometimes I grieve for the loss of the house of the Paraclete,

and wish to see it again. Ah, Philintus, does not the love of Heloise

still burn in my heart? I have not yet triumphed over that unhappy

passion. In the midst of my retirement I sigh, I weep, I pine, I speak

the dear name Heloise, and am pleased to hear the sound.”—_Letters of

the celebrated Abelard and Heloise. Translated by Mr. John Hughes._

Glasgow, 1751.

Page 232. _Were it not for my magic garters and staff._

The method of making the Magic Garters and the Magic Staff is thus

laid down in _Les Secrets Merveilleux du Petit Albert_, a French

translation of _Alberti Parvi Lucii Libellus de Mirabilibus Naturæ

Arcanis_:—

“Gather some of the herb called motherwort, when the sun is entering

the first degree of the sign of Capricorn; let it dry a little in the

shade, and make some garters of the skin of a young hare; that is to

say, having cut the skin of the hare into strips two inches wide,

double them, sew the before-mentioned herb between, and wear them

on your legs. No horse can long keep up with a man on foot who is

furnished with these garters.”—P. 128.

“Gather, on the morrow of All Saints, a strong branch of willow, of

which you will make a staff, fashioned to your liking. Hollow it out,

by removing the pith from within, after having furnished the lower end

with an iron ferrule. Put into the bottom of the staff the two eyes

of a young wolf, the tongue and heart of a dog, three green lizards,

and the hearts of three swallows. These must all be dried in the sun,

between two papers, having been first sprinkled with finely-pulverised

saltpetre. Besides all these, put into the staff seven leaves of

vervain, gathered on the eve of St. John the Baptist, with a stone

of divers colours, which you will find in the nest of the lapwing,

and stop the end of the staff with a pomel of box, or of any other

material you please, and be assured that this staff will guarantee you

from the perils and mishaps which too often befall travellers, either

from robbers, wild beasts, mad dogs, or venomous animals. It will also

procure you the good-will of those with whom you lodge.”—P. 130.

Page 237. _Saint Elmo’s stars._

So the Italian sailors call the phosphorescent gleams that sometimes

play about the masts and rigging of ships.

Page 238. THE SCHOOL OF SALERNO.

For a history of the celebrated schools of Salerno and Monte-Cassino,

the reader is referred to Sir Alexander Croke’s introduction to the

_Regimen Sanitatis Salernitanum_; and Kurt Sprengel’s _Geschichte der

Arzneikunde_, i. 463, or Jourdan’s French translation of it, _Histoire

de la Médecine_, ii. 354.

Page 255. THE SONG OF HIAWATHA.

This Indian Edda—if I may so call it—is founded on a tradition

prevalent among the North American Indians, of a personage of

miraculous birth who was sent among them to clear their rivers,

forests, and fishing-grounds, and to teach them the arts of peace. He

was known among different tribes by the several names of Michabou,

Chiabo, Manabozo, Tarenyawagon, and Hiawatha. Mr. Schoolcraft gives

an account of him in his _Algic Researches_, vol. i. p. 134; and in

his _History, Condition, and Prospects of the Indian Tribes of the

United States_, Part iii. p. 314, may be found the Iroquois form of the

tradition, derived from the verbal narrations of an Onondaga chief.

Into this old tradition I have woven other curious Indian legends,

drawn chiefly from the various and valuable writings of Mr.

Schoolcraft, to whom the literary world is greatly indebted for his

indefatigable zeal in rescuing from oblivion so much of the legendary

lore of the Indians.

The scene of the poem is among the Ojibways on the southern shore of

Lake Superior, in the region between the Pictured Rocks and the Grand

Sable.

VOCABULARY TO THE SONG OF HIAWATHA.

Adjidau’mo, _the red squirrel_.

Ahdeek’, _the reindeer_.

Ahmeek’, _the beaver_.

Algonquin, _Ojibway_.

Annemee’kee, _the thunder_.

Apuk’wa, _a bulrush_.

Baim-wa’wa, _the sound of the thunder_.

Bemah’gut, _the grape-vine_.

Bena, _the pheasant_.

Big-Sea-Water, _Lake Superior_.

Bukadawin, _famine_.

Cheemaun’, _a birch canoe_.

Chetowaik’, _the plover_.

Chibia’bos, _a musician_; _friend of Hiawatha_;

_ruler in the Land of Spirits_.

Dahin’da, _the bull-frog_.

Dush-kwo-ne’-she, _or_ Kwo-ne’-she, _the dragon-fly_.

Esa, _shame upon you_.

Ewa-yea’, _lullaby_.

Gitche Gu’mee, _the Big-Sea-Water, Lake Superior_.

Gitche Man’ito, _the Great Spirit, the Master of Life_.

Gushkewau’, _the darkness_.

Hiawa’tha, _the Prophet, the Teacher_; _son of Mudjekeewis,

the West-Wind, and Wenonah, daughter of Nokomis_.

Ia’goo, _a great boaster and story-teller_.

Inin’ewug, _men, or pawns in the Game of the Bowl_.

Ishkoodah’, _fire, a comet_.

Jee’bi, _a ghost, a spirit_.

Joss’akeed, _a prophet_.

Kabibonok’ka, _the North-Wind_.

Ka’go, _do not_.

Kagh, _the Hedgehog_.

Kahgahgee’, _the raven_.

Kaw, _no_.

Kaween’, _no indeed_.

Kayoshk’, _the sea-gull_.

Keego, _a fish_.

Keeway’din, _the North-west wind, the Home-wind_.

Kena’beek, _a serpent_.

Keneu’, _the great war-eagle_.

Keno’zha, _the pickerel_.

Ko’ko-ko’ho, _the owl_.

Kuntasoo’, _the Game of Plum-stones_.

Kwa’sind, _the Strong Man_.

Kwo-ne’-she, _or_ Dush-kwo-ne’-she, _the dragon-fly_.

Mahnahbe’zee, _the swan_.

Mahng, _the loon_.

Mahn-go-tay’see, _loon-hearted, brave_.

Mahnomo’nee, _wild rice_.

Ma’ma, _the woodpecker_.

Maskeno’zha, _the pike_.

Me’da, a _medicine-man_.

Meenah’ga, _the blueberry_.

Megissog’won, _the Great Pearl-Feather, a magician, and the Manito

of Wealth_.

Meshinau’wa, _a pipe-bearer_.

Minjekah’wun, _Hiawatha’s mittens_.

Minneha’ha, _Laughing Water_; _a waterfall on a stream

running into the Mississippi, between Fort Snelling

and the Falls of St. Anthony_.

Minneha’ha, _Laughing Water_; _wife of Hiawatha_.

Minne-wa’wa, _a pleasant sound, as of the wind in the trees_.

Mishe-Mo’kwa, _the Great Bear_.

Mishe-Nah’ma, _the Great Sturgeon_.

Miskodeed’, _the Spring-Beauty, the Claytonia Virginica_.

Monda’min, _Indian corn_.

Moon of Bright Nights, _April_.

Moon of Leaves, _May_.

Moon of Strawberries, _June_.

Moon of the Falling Leaves, _September_.

Moon of Snow-shoes, _November_.

Mudjekee’wis, _the West-Wind_; _father of Hiawatha_.

Mudway-aush’ka, _sound of waves on a shore_.

Mushkoda’sa, _the grouse_.

Nah’ma, _the sturgeon_.

Nah’ma-wusk, _the spearmint_.

Na’gow Wudjoo’, _the Sand Dunes of Lake Superior_.

Nee-ba-naw-baigs, _water-spirits_.

Nenemoo’sha, _sweetheart_.

Nepah’win, _sleep_.

Noko’mis, _a grandmother_; _mother of Wenonah_.

No’sa, _my father_.

Nush’ka, _look! look!_

Odah’min, _the strawberry_.

Okahah’wis, _the fresh-water herring_.

Ome’me, _the pigeon_.

Ona’gon, _a bowl_.

Onaway’, _awake_.

Opechee’, _the robin_.

Osse’o, _Son of the Evening Star_.

Owais’sa, _the blue-bird_.

Oweenee’, _wife of Osseo_.

Ozawa’beek, _a round piece of brass or copper in the

Game of the Bowl_.

Pah-puk-kee’-na, _the grasshopper_.

Pau’guk, _death_.

Pau-Puk-Kee’wis, _the handsome Yenadizze, the Storm-Fool_.

Pawwa’ting, _Saut Sainte Marie_.

Pe’boan, _Winter_.

Pem’ican, _meat of the deer or buffalo dried and pounded_.

Pezhekee’, _the bison_.

Pishnekuh’, _the brant_.

Pone’mah, _hereafter_.

Pugasaing, _game of the bowl_.

Puggawau’gun, _a war-club_.

Puk-Wudj’ies, Puk-Wudj-In-in’ees, _little wild men of the

woods_; _pigmies_.

Sah-sah-je’-wun, _rapids_.

Sah’wa, _the perch_.

Segwun’, _Spring_.

Sha’da, _the pelican_.

Shahbo’min, _the gooseberry_.

Shah-shah, _long ago_.

Shaugoda’ya, _a coward_.

Shawgashee’, _the craw-fish_.

Shawonda’see, _the South-Wind_.

Shaw-shaw, _the swallow_.

Shesh’ebwug, _ducks_; _pieces in the Game of the Bowl_.

Shin’gebis, _the diver, or greebe_.

Showain’neme’shin, _pity me_.

Shuh’shuh’gah, _the blue heron_.

Soan-ge-ta’ha, _strong-hearted_.

Subbeka’she, _the spider_.

Sugge’ma, _the mosquito_.

To’tem, _family coat of arms_.

Ugh, _yes_.

Ugudwash’, _the sun-fish_.

Unktahee’, _the God of Water_.

Wabas’so, _the rabbit_; _the North_.

Wabe’no, _a magician, a juggler_.

Wabe’no-wusk, _yarrow_.

Wa’bun, _the East-Wind_.

Wa’bun An’nung, _the Star of the East, the Morning Star_.

Wahono’min, _a cry of lamentation_.

Wah-way-tay’see, _the fire-fly_.

Wam’pum, _beads of shell_.

Waubewy’on, _a white skin wrapper_.

Wa’wa, _the wild-goose_.

Waw’beek, _a rock_.

Waw-be-wa’wa, _the white goose_.

Wawonais’sa, _the whippoorwill_.

Way-muk-kwa’na, _the caterpillar_.

Weno’nah, _the eldest daughter_. _Hiawatha’s mother_;

_daughter of Nokomis_.

Yenadiz’ze, _an idler and gambler_; _an Indian dandy_.

Page 255. _In the Vale of Tawasentha._

This valley, now called Norman’s Kill, is in Albany County, New York.

Page 256. _On the mountains of the Prairie._

Mr. Catlin, in his _Letters and Notes on the Manners, Customs, and

Condition of the North American Indians_, vol. ii. p. 160, gives

an interesting account of the _Côteau des Prairies_, and the Red

Pipe-stone Quarry. He says:—

“Here (according to their traditions) happened the mysterious birth

of the red pipe, which has blown its fumes of peace and war to the

remotest corners of the continent; which has visited every warrior,

and passed through its reddened stem the irrevocable oath of war and

desolation. And here, also, the peace-breathing calamet was born, and

fringed with the eagle’s quills, which has shed its thrilling fumes

over the land, and soothed the fury of the relentless savage.

“The Great Spirit at an ancient period here called the Indian Nations

together, and, standing on the precipice of the red pipe-stone rock,

broke from its wall a piece, and made a huge pipe by turning it in his

hand, which he smoked over them, and to the North, the South, the East,

and the West, and told them that this stone was red—that it was their

flesh—that they must use it for their pipes of peace—that it belonged

to them all, and that the war-club and scalping-knife must not be

raised on its ground. At the last whiff of his pipe his head went into

a great cloud, and the whole surface of the rock for several miles was

melted and glazed; two great ovens were opened beneath, and two women

(guardian spirits of the place) entered them in a blaze of fire; and

they are heard there yet (Tso-mec-cos-tee and Tso-me-cos-te-won-dee),

answering to the invocations of the high-priests or medicine men, who

consult them when they are visitors to this sacred place.”

Page 258. _Hark you, Bear! you are a coward._

This anecdote is from Heckewelder. In his account of the _Indian

Nations_, he describes an Indian hunter as addressing a bear in

nearly these words. “I was present,” he says, “at the delivery of

this curious invective; when the hunter had despatched the bear, I

asked him how he thought that poor animal could understand what he

said to it! ‘Oh,’ said he in answer, ‘the bear understood me very

well; did you not observe how ashamed he looked while I was upbraiding

him?’”—_Transactions of the American Philosophical Society_, vol. i. p.

240.

Page 262. _Hush! the Naked Bear will get thee!_

Heckewelder, in a letter published in the _Transactions of the American

Philosophical Society_, vol. iv. p. 260, speaks of this tradition as

prevalent among the Mohicans and Delawares.

“Their reports,” he says, “run thus: that among all animals that had

been formerly in this country, this was the most ferocious; that it

was much larger than the largest of the common bears, and remarkably

long-bodied; all over (except a spot of hair on its back of a white

colour) naked....

“The history of this animal used to be a subject of conversation among

the Indians, especially when in the woods a-hunting. I have also heard

them say to their children when crying: ‘Hush! the naked bear will hear

you, be upon you, and devour you.’”

Page 266. _Where the Falls of Minnehaha, etc._

“The scenery about Fort Snelling is rich in beauty. The Falls of St.

Anthony are familiar to travellers, and to readers of Indian sketches.

Between the fort and these falls are the ‘Little Falls,’ forty feet in

height, on a stream that empties into the Mississippi. The Indians call

them Mine-hah-hah, or ‘laughing waters.’”—MRS. EASTMAN’S _Dacotah, or

Legends of the Sioux_, Introd. p. ii.

Page 283. _Sand Hills of the Nagow Wudjoo._

A description of the _Grand Sable_, or great sand-dunes of Lake

Superior, is given in Foster and Witney’s _Report on the Geology of the

Lake Superior Land District_, Part ii. p. 131.

“The Grand Sable possesses a scenic interest little inferior to that

of the Pictured Rocks. The explorer passes abruptly from a coast of

consolidated sand to one of loose materials; and although in the one

case the cliffs are less precipitous, yet in the other they attain a

higher altitude. He sees before him a long reach of coast, resembling

a vast sand-bank, more than three hundred and fifty feet in height,

without a trace of vegetation. Ascending to the top, rounded hillocks

of blown sand are observed, with occasional clumps of trees, standing

out like oases in the desert.”

Page 284. _Onaway! Awake, beloved!_

The original of this song may be found in Littell’s _Living Age_, vol.

XXV. p. 45.

Page 285. _Or the Red Swan floating, flying._

The fanciful tradition of the Red Swan may be found in Schoolcraft’s

_Algic Researches_, vol. ii. p. 9. Three brothers were hunting on a

wager to see who would bring home the first game.

“They were to shoot no other animal,” so the legend says, “but such as

each was in the habit of killing. They set out different ways; Odjibwa,

the youngest, had not gone far before he saw a bear, an animal he was

not to kill by the agreement. He followed him close, and drove an arrow

through him, which brought him to the ground. Although contrary to the

bet, he immediately commenced skinning him, when suddenly something

red tinged all the air around him. He rubbed his eyes, thinking he was

perhaps deceived; but without effect, for the red hue continued. At

length he heard a strange noise at a distance. It first appeared like

a human voice, but after following the sound for some distance, he

reached the shores of a lake, and soon saw the object he was looking

for. At a distance out on the lake sat a most beautiful Red Swan, whose

plumage glittered in the sun, and who would now and then make the same

noise he had heard. He was within long bow-shot, and, pulling the arrow

from the bow-string up to his ear, took deliberate aim and shot. The

arrow took no effect; and he shot and shot again till his quiver was

empty. Still the swan remained, moving round and round, stretching

its long neck and dipping its bill into the water, as if heedless of

the arrows shot at it. Odjibwa ran home, and got all his own and his

brother’s arrows, and shot them all away. He then stood and gazed

at the beautiful bird. While standing, he remembered his brother’s

saying that in their deceased father’s medicine-sack were three magic

arrows. Off he started, his anxiety to kill the swan overcoming all

scruples. At any other time he would have deemed it sacrilege to open

his father’s medicine-sack; but now he hastily seized the three arrows

and ran back, leaving the other contents of the sack scattered over the

lodge. The swan was still there. He shot the first arrow with great

precision, and came very near it. The second came still closer; as he

took the last arrow, he felt his arm firmer, and, drawing it up with

vigour, saw it pass through the neck of the swan a little above the

breast. Still it did not prevent the bird from flying off, which it

did, however, at first slowly, flapping its wings and rising gradually

into the air, and then flying off towards the sinking of the sun.”—Pp.

10-12.

Page 288. _When I think of my beloved._

The original of this song may be found in _Oneóta_, p. 15.

Page 289. _Sing the mysteries of Mondamin._

The Indians hold the maize, or Indian corn, in great veneration. “They

esteem it so important and divine a grain,” says Schoolcraft, “that

their story-tellers invented various tales, in which this idea is

symbolized under the form of a special gift from the Great Spirit. The

Odjibwa-Algonquins, who called it Mondá-min, that is, the Spirit’s

grain or berry, have a pretty story of this kind, in which the stalk in

full tassel is represented as descending from the sky, under the guise

of a handsome youth, in answer to the prayers of a young man at his

fast of virility, or coming to manhood.

“It is well known that corn-planting, and corn-gathering, at least

among all the still _uncolonized_ tribes, are left entirely to the

females and children, and a few superannuated old men. It is not

generally known, perhaps, that this labour is not compulsory, and that

it is assumed by the females as a just equivalent, in their view, for

the onerous and continuous labour of the other sex, in providing meats,

and skins for clothing, by the chase, and in defending their villages

against their enemies, and keeping intruders off their territories. A

good Indian housewife deems this part of her prerogative, and prides

herself to have a store of corn to exercise her hospitality, or duly

honour her husband’s hospitality in the entertainment of the lodge

guests.”—_Oneóta_, p. 82.

Page 289. _Thus the fields shall be more fruitful._

“A singular proof of this belief, in both sexes, of the mysterious

influence of the steps of a woman on the vegetable and insect creation,

is found in an ancient custom, which was related to me, respecting

corn-planting. It was the practice of the hunter’s wife, when the field

of corn had been planted, to choose the first dark or over-clouded

evening to perform a secret circuit, _sans habilement_, around the

field. For this purpose she slipped out of the lodge in the evening,

unobserved, to some obscure nook, where she completely disrobed. Then,

taking her matchecota, or principal garment, in one hand, she dragged

it around the field. This was thought to ensure a prolific crop, and

to prevent the assaults of insects and worms upon the grain. It was

supposed they could not creep over the charmed line.”—_Oneóta_, p. 83.

Page 290. _With his prisoner-string he bound him._

“These cords,” says Mr. Tanner, “are made of the bark of the elm-tree,

by boiling and then immersing it in cold water.... The leader of a war

party commonly carries several fastened about his waist, and if, in

the course of the fight, any one of his young men takes a prisoner, it

is his duty to bring him immediately to the chief, to be tied, and the

latter is responsible for his safe-keeping.”—_Narrative of Captivity

and Adventures_, p. 412.

Page 291. _Wagemin, the thief of corn-fields.

Paimosaid, the skulking robber._

“If one of the young female huskers finds a red ear of corn, it is

typical of a brave admirer, and is regarded as a fitting present to

some young warrior. But if the ear be _crooked_, and tapering to a

point, no matter what colour, the whole circle is set in a roar, and

_wa-ge-min_ is the word shouted aloud. It is the symbol of a thief in

the corn-field. It is considered as the image of an old man stooping

as he enters the lot. Had the chisel of Praxiteles been employed to

produce this image, it could not more vividly bring to the minds of the

merry group the idea of a pilferer of their favourite mondámin....

“The literal meaning of the term is, a mass, or crooked ear of grain;

but the ear of corn so called, is a conventional type of a little old

man pilfering ears of corn in a corn-field. It is in this manner that a

single word or term, in these curious languages, becomes the fruitful

parent of many ideas. And we can thus perceive why it is that the word

wa-ge-min is alone competent to excite merriment in the husking circle.

“This term is taken as the basis of the cereal chores, or corn-song, as

sung by the Northern Algonquin tribes. It is coupled with the phrase

_Paimosaid_, a permutative form of the Indian substantive, made from

the verb _pimp-o-sa_, to walk. Its literal meaning is, _he who walks_,

or _the walker_; but the ideas conveyed by it are, he who walks by

night to pilfer corn. It offers, therefore, a kind of parallelism in

expression to the preceding term.”—_Oneóta_, p. 254.

Page 296. _Pugasaing, with thirteen pieces._

This game of the Bowl is the principal game of hazard among the

Northern tribes of Indians. Mr. Schoolcraft gives a particular account

of it in _Oneóta_, p. 85. “This game,” he says, “is very fascinating

to some portions of the Indians. They stake at it their ornaments,

weapons, clothing, canoes, horses, everything, in fact, they possess;

and have been known, it is said, to set up their wives and children,

and even to forfeit their own liberty. Of such desperate stakes I

have seen no examples, nor do I think the game itself in common use.

It is rather confined to certain persons, who hold the relative rank

of gamblers in Indian society—men who are not noted as hunters or

warriors, or steady providers for their families. Among these are

persons who bear the term of _Ienadizze-wug_, that is, wanderers

about the country, braggadocios, or fops. It can hardly be classed

with the popular games of amusenent, by which skill and dexterity are

acquired. I have generally found the chiefs and graver men of the

tribes, who encouraged the young men to play ball, and are sure to be

present at the customary sports, to witness, and sanction, and applaud

them, speak lightly and disparagingly of this game of hazard. Yet it

cannot be denied that some of the chiefs, distinguished in war and the

chase, at the West, can be referred to as lending their example to its

fascinating power.”

See also his _History, Condition, and Prospects of the Indian Tribes_,

Part ii. p. 72.

Page 302. _To the Pictured Rocks of Sandstone._

The reader will find a long description of the Pictured Rocks in

Foster and Whitney’s _Report on the Geology of the Lake Superior Land

District_, Part ii. p. 124. From this I make the following extract:—

“The Pictured Rocks may be described, in general terms, as a series

of sandstone bluffs extending along the shore of Lake Superior for

about five miles, and rising in most places vertically from the

water, without any beach at the base, to a height varying from fifty

to nearly two hundred feet. Were they simply a line of cliffs, they

might not, so far as relates to height or extent, be worthy of a rank

among great natural curiosities, although such an assemblage of rocky

strata, washed by the waves of the great lake, would not, under any

circumstances, be destitute of grandeur. To the voyager coasting along

their base in his frail canoe, they would at all times be an object

of dread; the recoil of the surf, the rock-bound coast, affording for

miles no place of refuge—the lowering sky, the rising wind—all these

would excite his apprehension, and induce him to ply a vigorous oar

until the dreaded wall was passed. But in the Pictured Rocks there are

two features which communicate to the scenery a wonderful and almost

unique character. These are, first, the curious manner in which the

cliffs have been excavated and worn away by the action of the lake,

which for centuries has dashed an ocean-like surf against their base;

and second, the equally curious manner in which large portions of the

surface have been coloured by bands of brilliant hues.

“It is from the latter circumstance that the name by which these cliffs

are known to the American traveller is derived; while that applied

to them by the French voyageurs (‘Les Portails’) is derived from the

former, and by far the most striking peculiarity.

“The term _Pictured Rocks_ has been in use for a great length of time;

but when it was first applied, we have been unable to discover. It

would seem that the first travellers were more impressed with the novel

and striking distribution of colours on the surface than with the

astonishing variety of form into which the cliffs themselves have been

worn....

“Our voyageurs had many legends to relate of the pranks of the

_Menni-bojou_ in these caverns, and, in answer to our inquiries, seemed

disposed to fabricate stories without end of the achievements of this

Indian deity.”

Page 311. _Towards the sun his hands were lifted._

In this manner, and with such salutations, was Father Marquette

received by the Illinois. See his _Voyages et Découvertes_, section v.

Page 434. _Like imperial Charlemagne._

During his lifetime he did not disdain, says Montesquieu, “to sell the

eggs from the farm-yards of his domains, and the superfluous vegetables

of his gardens; while he distributed among his people the wealth of the

Lombards and the immense treasures of the Huns.”

Page 529. _Coplas de Manrique._

Don Jorge Manrique, the author of this poem, flourished in the last

half of the fifteenth century. He followed the profession of arms, and

died on the field of battle. Mariana, in his history of Spain, makes

honourable mention of him, as being present at the siege of Uclès; and

speaks of him as “a youth of estimable qualities, who in this war gave

brilliant proofs of his valour. He died young; and was thus cut off

from long exercising his great virtues, and exhibiting to the world the

light of his genius, which was already known to fame.” He was mortally

wounded in a skirmish near Cañavete, in the year 1479.

The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father of the poet, Conde de Parades

and Maestre de Santiago, is well known in Spanish history and song. He

died in 1476; according to Mariana, in the town of Uclès; but according

to the poem of his son, in Ocaña. It was his death that called forth

the poem upon which rests the literary reputation of the younger

Manrique. In the language of his historian, “Don Jorge Manrique, in an

elegant Ode, full of poetic beauties, rich embellishments of genius,

and high moral reflections, mourned the death of his father as with a

funeral hymn.” This praise is not exaggerated. The poem is a model in

its kind. Its conception is solemn and beautiful; and, in accordance

with it, the style moves on—calm, dignified, and majestic.

This poem of Manrique is a great favourite in Spain. No less than four

poetic glosses, or running commentaries upon it, have been published,

no one of which, however, possesses great poetic merit. That of the

Carthusian monk, Rodrigo de Valdepenas, is the best. It is known as the

_Glosa del Cartujo_. There is also a prose Commentary by Luis de Aranda.

* * * * *

The following stanzas of the poem were found in the author’s pocket

after his death on the field of battle:—

“O World! so few the years we live,

Would that the life which thou dost give

Were life indeed!

Alas! thy sorrows fall so fast,

Our happiest hour is when at last

The soul is freed.

“Our days are covered o’er with grief,

And sorrows neither few nor brief

Veil all in gloom;

Left desolate of real good,

Within this cheerless solitude

No pleasures bloom.

“Thy pilgrimage begins in tears,

And ends in bitter doubts and fears,

Or dark despair;

Midway so many toils appear,

That he who lingers longest here

Knows most of care.

“Thy goods are bought with many a groan,

By the hot sweat of toil alone,

And weary hearts;

Fleet-footed is the approach of woe,

But with a lingering step and slow

Its form departs.”

Page 546. _A Christmas Carol._

The following description of Christmas in Burgundy is from M.

Fertiault’s _Coup d’œil sur les Noels en Bourgogne_, prefixed to

the Paris edition of _Les Noels Bourguignons de la Monnoye_ (_Gui

Barozai_), 1842:—

“Every year, at the approach of Advent, people refresh their memories,

clear their throats, and begin preluding, in the long evenings by

the fireside, those carols whose invariable and eternal theme is the

coming of the Messiah. They take from old closets, pamphlets, little

collections begrimed with dust and smoke, to which the press, and

sometimes the pen, has consigned these songs; and as soon as the first

Sunday of Advent sounds, they gossip, they gad about, they sit together

by the fireside, sometimes at one house, sometimes at another, taking

turns in paying for the chestnuts and white wine, but singing with

one common voice the grotesque praises of the _Little Jesus_. There

are very few villages even, which, during all the evenings of Advent,

do not hear some of these curious canticles shouted in their streets,

to the nasal drone of bagpipes. In this case the minstrel comes as a

reinforcement to the singers at the fireside; he brings and adds his

dose of joy (spontaneous or mercenary, it matters little which) to the

joy which breathes around the hearthstone; and when the voices vibrate

and resound, one voice more is always welcome. There, it is not the

purity of the notes which makes the concert, but the quantity—_non

qualitas sed quantitas_; then (to finish at once with the ministrel),

when the Saviour has at length been born in the manger, and the

beautiful Christmas-eve is passed, the rustic piper makes his round

among the houses, where every one compliments and thanks him, and,

moreover, gives him in a small coin the price of the shrill notes with

which he has enlivened the evening entertainments.

“More or less, until Christmas-eve, all goes on in this way among our

devout singers, with the difference of some gallons of wine or some

hundreds of chestnuts. But this famous eve once come, the scale is

pitched upon a higher key; the closing evening must be a memorable

one. The toilet is begun at nightfall; then comes the hour of supper,

admonishing divers appetites; and groups, as numerous as possible, are

formed, to take together this comfortable evening repast. The supper

finished, a circle gathers around the hearth, which is arranged and

set in order this evening after a particular fashion, and which at a

later hour of the night is to become the object of special interest to

the children. On the burning brands an enormous log has been placed.

This log assuredly does not change its nature, but it changes its

name during this evening; it is called the _Suche_ (the Yule-log).

‘Look you,’ say they to the children, ‘if you are good this evening,

Noël’ (for with children one must always personify) ‘will rain down

sugar-plums in the night.’ And the children sit demurely, keeping as

quiet as their turbulent little natures will permit. The groups of

older persons, not always as orderly as the children, seize this good

opportunity to surrender themselves with merry hearts and boisterous

voices to the chanted worship of the miraculous Noël. For this final

solemnity they have kept the most powerful, the most enthusiastic, the

most electrifying carols. Noël! Noël! Noël! This magic word resounds on

all sides; it seasons every sauce; it is served up with every course.

Of the thousands of canticles which are heard on this famous eve,

ninety-nine in a hundred begin and end with this word; which is, one

may say, their Alpha and Omega, their crown and footstool.”

Page 546. _The blind girl of Castèl-Cuillè._

The following description of Jasmin’s person and way of life is taken

from the graphic pages of _Béarn and the Pyrenees_, by Louisa Stuart

Costello, whose charming pen has done so much to illustrate the French

provinces and their literature:—

“At the entrance of the promenade du Gravier is a row of small

houses—some _cafés_, others shops, the indication of which is a

painted cloth, placed across the way, with the owner’s name in bright

gold letters, in the manner of the arcades in the streets, and their

announcements. One of the most glaring of these was, we observed, a

bright blue flag, bordered with gold; on which, in large gold letters,

appeared the name of ‘Jasmin, coiffeur.’ We entered, and were welcomed

by a smiling, dark-eyed woman, who informed us that her husband was

busy at that moment, dressing a customer’s hair, but he was desirous to

receive us, and begged we would walk into his parlour at the back of

the shop.

* * * * *

“She exhibited to us a laurel crown of gold, of delicate workmanship,

sent from the city of Clemence Isaure, Toulouse, to the poet; who will

probably one day take his place in the _capitoul_. Next came a golden

cup, with an inscription in his honour, given by the citizens of Auch;

a gold watch, chain, and seals, sent by the king, Louis Philippe; an

emerald ring, worn and presented by the lamented Duke of Orleans; a

pearl pin, by the graceful Duchess, who, on the poet’s visit to Paris,

accompanied by his son, received him in the words he puts into the

mouth of Henri Quatre:—

‘Brabes Gascous!

A moun amou per bous aou dibes creyre;

Benès! benès! cy plazé de bous beyre;

Aproucha bous!’

A fine service of linen, the offering of the town of Pau, after its

citizens had given fêtes in his honour, and loaded him with caresses

and praises; and nicknacks and jewels of all descriptions, offered

to him by lady-ambassadresses and great lords; English ‘misses’ and

‘miladis;’ and French and foreigners of all nations who did or did not

understand Gascon.

“All this, though startling, was not convincing; Jasmin, the barber,

might only be a fashion, a _furore_, a caprice, after all; and it

was evident that he knew how to get up a scene well. When we had

become nearly tired of looking over these tributes to his genius, the

door opened, and the poet himself appeared. His manner was free and

unembarrassed, well-bred, and lively; he received our compliments

naturally, and like one accustomed to homage; said he was ill, and

unfortunately too hoarse to read anything to us, or should have been

delighted to do so. He spoke with a broad Gascon accent, and very

rapidly and eloquently; ran over the story of his successes; told us

that his grandfather had been a beggar, and all his family very poor;

that he was now as rich as he wished to be; his son placed in a good

position at Nantes; then showed us his son’s picture, and spoke of his

disposition, to which his brisk little wife added that, though no fool,

he had not his father’s genius, to which truth Jasmin assented as a

matter of course. I told him of having seen mention made of him in an

English review; which he said had been sent him by Lord Durham, who

had paid him a visit: and I then spoke of ‘Mi cal mouri’ as known to

me. This was enough to make him forget his hoarseness and every other

evil: it would never do for me to imagine that that little song was

his best composition; it was merely his first; he must try to read to

me a little of ‘L’Abuglo,’ a few verses of ‘Françonnette.’ ‘You will

be charmed,’ said he; ‘but if I were well, and you would give me the

pleasure of your company for some time, if you were not merely running

through Agen, I would kill you with weeping—I would make you die with

distress for my poor Margarido—my pretty Françonnette!’

“He caught up two copies of his book from a pile lying on the table,

and making us sit close to him, he pointed out the French translation

on one side, which he told us to follow, while he read in Gascon.

He began in a rich soft voice, and as he advanced, the surprise of

Hamlet on hearing the player-king recite the disasters of Hecuba was

but a type of ours, to find ourselves carried away by the spell of

his enthusiasm. His eyes swam in tears; he became pale and red; he

trembled; he recovered himself; his face was now joyous, now exulting,

gay, jocose; in fact, he was twenty actors in one; he rang the changes

from Rachel to Bouffé; and he finished by delighting us, besides

beguiling us of our tears, and overwhelming us with astonishment.

“He would have been a treasure on the stage; for he is still, though

his first youth is past, remarkably good-looking and striking; with

black, sparkling eyes of intense expression; a fine ruddy complexion;

a countenance of wondrous mobility; a good figure, and action full of

fire and grace; he has handsome hands, which he uses with infinite

effect; and, on the whole, he is the best actor of the kind I ever

saw. I could now quite understand what a troubadour or _jongleur_

might be, and I look upon Jasmin as a revived specimen of that extinct

race. Such as he is might have been Gaucelm Faidit, of Avignon, the

friend of Cœur de Lion, who lamented the death of the hero in such

moving strains; such might have been Bernard de Ventadour, who sang the

praises of Queen Elinore’s beauty; such Geoffrey Rudel, of Blaye, on

his own Garonne; such the wild Vidal; certain it is that none of these

troubadours of old could more move, by their singing or reciting, than

Jasmin, in whom all their long-smothered fire and traditional magic

seem re-illumined.

“We found we had stayed hours instead of minutes with the poet; but he

would not hear of any apology—only regretted that his voice was so out

of tune, in consequence of a violent cold, under which he was really

labouring, and hoped to see us again. He told us our countrywomen of

Pau had laden him with kindness and attention, and spoke with such

enthusiasm of the beauty of certain ‘misses,’ that I feared his little

wife would feel somewhat piqued; but, on the contrary, she stood by,

smiling and happy, and enjoying the stories of his triumphs. I remarked

that he had restored the poetry of the troubadours; asked him if he

knew their songs; and said he was worthy to stand at their head. ‘I

am, indeed, a troubadour,’ said he with energy; ‘but I am far beyond

them all; they were but beginners; they never composed a poem like

my Françonnette! there are no poets in France now—there cannot be;

the language does not admit of it; where is the fire, the spirit, the

expression, the tenderness, the force of the Gascon? French is but

the ladder to reach the first floor of Gascon—how can you get up to a

height except by a ladder?’

* * * * *

“I returned by Agen, after an absence in the Pyrenees of some months,

and renewed my acquaintance with Jasmin and his dark-eyed wife. I did

not expect that I should be recognised; but the moment I entered the

little shop I was hailed as an old friend. ‘Ah!’ cried Jasmin, ‘enfin

la violà encore!’ I could not but be flattered by this recollection,

but soon found it was less on my own account that I was thus welcomed,

than because a circumstance had occurred to the poet which he thought

I could perhaps explain. He produced several French newspapers, in

which he pointed out to me an article headed, ‘Jasmin à Londres;’ being

a translation of certain notices of himself, which had appeared in a

leading English literary journal. He had, he said, been informed of the

honour done him by numerous friends, and assured me his fame had been

much spread by this means; and he was so delighted on the occasion,

that he had resolved to learn English, in order that he might judge of

the translations from his works, which, he had been told, were well

done. I enjoyed his surprise, while I informed him I knew who was the

reviewer and translator; and explained the reason for the verses giving

pleasure in an English dress to be the superior simplicity of the

English language over modern French, for which he has a great contempt,

as unfitted for lyrical composition. He inquired of me respecting

Burns, to whom he had been likened; and begged me to tell him

something of Moore. The delight of himself and his wife was amusing, at

having discovered a secret which had puzzled them so long.

“He had a thousand things to tell me; in particular, that he had only

the day before received a letter from the Duchess of Orleans, informing

him that she had ordered a medal of her late husband to be struck, the

first of which would be sent to him: she also announced to him the

agreeable news of the king having granted him a pension of a thousand

francs. He smiled and wept by turns, as he told all this; and declared,

much as he was elated at the possession of a sum which made him a rich

man for life, the kindness of the duchess gratified him even more.

“He then made us sit down while he read us two new poems; both charming

and full of grace and _naïveté_; and one very affecting, being an

address to the king, alluding to the death of his son. As he read, his

wife stood by, and, fearing we did not quite comprehend his language,

she made a remark to that effect: to which he answered, impatiently,

‘Nonsense—don’t you see they are in tears?’ This was unanswerable; and

we were allowed to hear the poem to the end; and I certainly never

listened to anything more feelingly and energetically delivered.

“We had much conversation, for he was anxious to detain us, and, in the

course of it, he told me that he had been by some accused of vanity.

‘O,’ he rejoined, ‘what would you have? I am a child of nature, and

cannot conceal my feelings; the only difference between me and a man of

refinement is, that he knows how to conceal his vanity and exultation

at success, which I let everybody see.’”—_Béarn and the Pyrenees_, i.

369 _et seq._

Page 600. _Nils Juel._

Nils Juel was a celebrated Danish Admiral, and Peder Wessel a

Vice-Admiral, who for his great prowess received the popular title

of Tordenskiold, or _Thundershield_. In childhood he was a tailor’s

apprentice, and rose to his higher rank before the age of twenty-eight,

when he was killed in a duel.

[Illustration]

INDEX OF FIRST LINES.

PAGE

A blind man is a poor man, 589

A cold, uninterrupted rain, 392

A fleet with flags arrayed, 492

A handful of red sand, from the hot clime, 151

A little bird in the air, 374

A millstone and the human heart, 589

A mist was driving down the British Channel, 462

A strain of music closed the tale, 380

A wind came up out of the sea, 475

A youth, light-hearted and content, 598

After a day of cloud and wind and rain, 447

Again the tossing boughs shut out the scene, 446

Ah Love, 87

Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me, 148

All are architects of Fate, 150

All day has the battle raged, 378

All houses wherein men have lived and died, 463

All praised the Legend more or less, 412

All the old gods are dead, 369

Am I a king, that I should call my own, 500

An angel with a radiant face, 559

An old man in a lodge within a park, 441

And King Olaf heard the cry, 359

And now, behold! as at the approach of morning, 538

And now I sit and muse on what may be, 445

And then the blue-eyed Norseman told, 358

And thou, O River of To-morrow, flowing, 440

Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old, 586

As a fond mother when the day is o’er, 438

As one who walking in a forest sees, 445

As one who, walking in the twilight gloom, 139

As the birds come in the spring, 504

As the dim twilight shrouds, 525

As unto the bow the cord is, 279

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, 482

At Atri in Abruzzo, a small town, 394

At Drontheim, Olaf the king, 371

At Stralsund, by the Baltic Sea, 403

At the foot of the mountain height, 561

Baron Castine of St. Castine, 412

Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers, 425

Beautiful valley through whose verdant meads, 485

Behold! a giant am I!, 509

Bell! thou soundest merrily, 594

Bent like a labouring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean, 112

Beside the ungathered rice he lay, 20

Between the dark and the daylight, 481

Beware! the Israelite of old, who tore, 23

Black are the moors before Kazan, 605

Black shadows fall, 460

Blind Bartimeus at the gates, 28

Build me straight, O worthy master, 140

Burn, O evening hearth, and waken, 429

But yesterday these few and hoary sheaves, 537

By his evening fire the artist, 156

By the shore of Gitche Gumee, 311

By yon still river, where the wave, 525

Can it be the sun descending, 285

Christ to the young man said, “Yet one thing more”, 155

Clear fount of light, my native land on high, 536

Come! old friend! sit down and listen, 52

Come to me, O ye children, 478

Dark is the morning with mist, 508

Dead he lay among his books, 506

Dear child! how radiant on thy mother’s knee, 39

Dost thou see on the rampart’s height, 494

Down from yon distant mountain height, 605

Downward through the evening twilight, 261

Even as a bird, ’mid the belovèd leaves, 541

Even as the Blessèd, at the final summons, 540

Far and wide among the nations, 303

Far in the West there lies a desert land, where the mountains, 131

Filled is Life’s goblet to the brim, 28

For thee was a house built, 571

Forms of saints and kings are standing, 585

Forth from the curtain of clouds, from the tent of purple and

scarlet, 335

Forth upon the Gitche Gumee, 273

Four limpid lakes—four Naiades, 502

Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day, 118

From this high portal, where upsprings, 570

Full of wrath was Hiawatha, 299

Garlands upon his grave, 485

Gentle Spring!—in sunshine clad, 553

Give me of your bark, O Birch-Tree, 272

Gloomy and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty Omahas, 47

God sent his messenger the rain, 249

God sent his Singers upon earth, 154

Good night, good night, beloved, 85

Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled, 410

Hast thou seen that lordly castle?, 595

Hasten, hasten, O ye spirits, 157

Have I dreamed? or was it real, 479

Have you read in the Talmud of old, 479

He ended: and a kind of spell, 353

He is dead, the beautiful youth, 430

He is gone to the desert land, 603

Hence away, begone, begone, 554

Here in a little rustic hermitage, 441

Here lies the gentle humourist, who died, 438

Here rest the weary oar!—soft airs, 524

Honour be to Mudjekeewis!, 258

How beautiful is the rain!, 44

How beautiful it was that one bright day, 427

How cold are thy baths, Apollo!, 508

How I started up in the night, in the night, 599

How many lives, made beautiful and sweet, 434

How much of my young heart, O Spain, 493

How strange it seems! these Hebrews in their graves, 467

How strange the sculptures that adorn these towers, 436

How they so softly rest, 594

I am the God Thor, 359

I enter, and I see thee in the gloom, 436

I have read, in some old marvellous tale, 13

I hear along our street, 560

I heard a brooklet gushing, 593

I heard a voice that cried, 153

I heard the bells on Christmas Day, 432

I heard the trailing garments of the night, 8

I know a maiden fair to see, 594

I lay upon the headland height, and listened, 426

I leave you, ye cold mountain chains, 570

I lift mine eyes, and all the windows blaze, 437

I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls, 27

I sat by my window one night, 527

I saw, as in a dream sublime, 43

I see amidst the fields of Ayr, 505

I shot an arrow into the air, 50

I stand again on the familiar shore, 444

I stand beneath the tree, whose branches shade, 441

I stood on the bridge at midnight, 45

I stood upon the hills, when heaven’s wide arch, 3

I thought before your tale began, 399

I thought this pen would arise, 504

I trust that somewhere and somehow, 399

If it e’er happen that the Poem Sacred, 548

If perhaps these rhymes of mine, 589

If thou art sleeping, maiden, 103

In broad daylight, and at noon, 470

In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp, 21

In his chamber, weak and dying, 38

In his lodge beside a river, 308

In Mather’s _Magnalia Christi_, 461

In Ocean’s wide domains, 23

In St. Luke’s Gospel we are told, 503

In that building, long and low, 472

In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware’s

waters, 135

In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas, 107

In the ancient town of Bruges, 30

In the convent of Drontheim, 379

In the heroic days when Ferdinand, 381

In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown, 30

In the old churchyard of his native town, 500

In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims, 314

In the valley of the Pegintz, where across broad meadow-lands, 35

In the Valley of the Vire, 466

In the village churchyard she lies, 465

In those days, said Hiawatha, 291

In those days the Evil Spirits, 293

Intelligence and courtesy are not always combined, 589

Into the city of Kambalu, 397

Into the darkness and the hush of night, 442

Into the open air John Alden, perplexed, 322

Into the Silent Land, 590

Is it so far from thee, 501

It was Einar Tamberskelver, 378

It was fifty years ago, 476

It was Sir Christopher Gardiner, 421

It was the month of May. Far down the beautiful River, 123

It was the schooner _Hesperus_, 17

It was the season, when through all the land, 386

Italy! Italy! thou who’rt doomed to wear, 552

Joy and Temperance and Repose, 588

Just above yon sandy bar, 149

Just in the grey of the dawn as the mists uprose from the

meadows, 325

King Christian stood by the lofty mast, 599

Labour with what zeal we will, 483

Laugh of the mountain!—lyre of bird and tree!, 535

Leafless are the trees; their purple branches, 473

Let nothing disturb thee, 535

Like two cathedral towers these stately pines, 443

Listen, my children, and you shall hear, 341

Live I, so live I, 589

Lo! in the painted oriel of the West, 435

Longing already to search in and round, 539

Lord, what am I, that with unceasing care, 536

Loud he sang the Psalm of David, 24

Loud the angry wind was wailing, 370

Loudly the sailors cheered, 375

Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine, 554

Lutheran, Popish, Calvinistic, 589

Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes, 32

Manlike is it to fall into sin, 589

Many a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand-Pré, 122

Meanwhile the stalwart Miles Standish was marching steadily

northward, 331

Month after month passed away, and in Autumn the ships of the

merchants, 333

Most beautiful, most gentle! Yet how lost, 522

Mounted on Kyrat strong and fleet, 495

Much it behoveth, 573

My soul its secret hath, my life too hath its mystery, 569

My way is on the bright blue sea, 29

Near to the bank of the river, o’ershadowed by oaks, from whose

branches, 126

Never stoops the soaring vulture, 304

Night rests in beauty on Mont Alto, 520

Nine sisters, beautiful in form and face, 439

No sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaks, 484

Northward over Drontheim, 374

Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the

stripling, 316

Now from all King Olaf’s farms, 363

Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and

longer, 110

Now Time throws off his cloak again, 555

“_Nunc plaudite_” the Student cried, 419

O Cæsar, we who are about to die, 447

O company elect to the Great Supper, 544

O curfew of the setting Sun! O Bells of Lynn, 428

O gift of God! O perfect day, 480

O hemlock-tree! O hemlock-tree! how faithful are thy branches, 586

O, how blest are ye whose toils are ended, 591

O let the soul her slumbers break, 529

O little feet! that such long years, 483

O Lord! that seest, from yonder starry height, 536

O lovely river of Yvette!, 498

O precious evenings! all too swiftly sped, 437

O River of Yesterday, with current swift, 440

O star of morning and of liberty, 437

O the long and dreary Winter!, 306

O traveller, stay thy weary feet, 515

O weathercock on the village spire, 508

O’er all the hill-tops, 595

Of Edenhall the youthful lord, 597

Of Prometheus, how undaunted, 459

Oft have I seen at some cathedral door, 436

Often I think of the beautiful town, 470

Olaf the King, one summer morn, 366

Olger the Dane and Desiderio, 423

On King Olaf’s bridal night, 368

On St. Bavon’s tower, commanding, 499

On sunny slope and beechen swell, 5

On the cross the dying Saviour, 588

On the green little isle of Inchkenneth, 499

On the grey sea-sands, 376

On the Mountains of the Prairie, 256

On the shores of Gitche Gumee, 276

Once into a quiet village, 152

Once more, once more, Inarimé, 491

Once the Emperor Charles of Spain, 464

Once upon Iceland’s solitary strand, 444

One Autumn night, in Sudbury town, 338

One day, Haroun Al Raschid read, 496

One hundred years ago, and something more, 406

One summer morning when the sun was hot, 345

Only the Lowland tongue of Scotland might, 560

Othere, the old sea-captain, 477

Our God a tower of strength is he, 251

Out of childhood into manhood, 264

Out of the bosom of the Air, 484

Pentecost, day of rejoicing, had come, 577

Pleasant it was, when woods were green, 7

Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pré, 115

Poet! I come to touch thy lance with mine, 443

Quand les astres de Noël, 431

Queen Sigrid the Haughty sat proud and aloft, 361

Rabbi Ben Levi, on the Sabbath, read, 352

River! that in silence windest, 27

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane, 254

Round Autumn’s mouldering urn, 519

Safe at anchor in Drontheim Bay, 373

Saint Augustine! well hast thou said, 460

St. Botolph’s Town! Hither across the plains, 442

See, the fire is sinking low, 429

She dwells by great Kenhawa’s side, 21

Shepherd! who with thine amorous, sylvan song, 535

Short of stature, large of limb, 368

Should you ask me, whence these stories?, 255

Simon Danz has come home again, 488

Sing! O song of Hiawatha, 289

Sir Oluf he rideth over the plain, 600

Sleep, comrades, sleep and rest, 513

Slowly the hour-hand of the clock moves round, 439

So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on his errand, 318

Solemnly, mournfully, 48

Somewhat back from the village street, 53

Soon as the story reached its end, 351

Southward with fleet of ice, 147

Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, 11

Speak! speak! thou fearful guest, 15

Spring is coming, birds are twittering, 574

Stars of the summer night, 59

Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest, 492

Steer, bold mariner, on! albeit witlings deride thee, 606

Still through Egypt’s desert places, 512

“Strike the sails!” King Olaf said, 377

Sweet babe! true portrait of thy father’s face, 553

Sweet the memory is to me, 487

Taddeo Gaddi built me. I am old, 551

Take them, O Death! and bear away, 155

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 9

The Ages come and go, 253

The archbishop, whom God loved in high degree, 556

The battle is fought and won, 419

The ceaseless rain is falling fast, 490

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary, 25

The day is done, and the darkness, 51

The day is ending, 54

The guests were loud, the ale was strong, 364

The hour was late; the fire burned low, 392

The Landlord ended thus his tale, 344

The lights are out, and gone are all the guests, 445

The meadow-brook, that seemeth to stand still, 446

The night is come, but not too soon, 11

The old house by the lindens, 155

The pages of thy book I read, 20

The picture fades; as at a village fair, 445

The rising moon has hid the stars, 26

The rivers rush into the sea, 592

The rocky ledge runs far into the sea, 146

The sea hath its pearls, 590

The shades of night were falling fast, 46

The Slaver in the broad lagoon, 22

The sun is bright, the air is clear, 25

The tide rises, the tide falls, 511

The twilight is sad and cloudy, 145

The works of human artifice soon tire, 537

There is a quiet spirit in these woods, 5

There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, 10

There is no flock, however watched and tended, 149

There sat one day in quiet, 593

There was a time when I was very small, 602

These words the poet heard in Paradise, 517

They made the warrior’s grave beside, 526

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, 33

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the

hemlocks, 106

This is the place. Stand still, my steed, 34

This song of mine, 474

Thora of Rimol! hide me! hide me, 360

Thorberg Skafting, master-builder, 372

Thou ancient oak! whose myriad leaves are loud, 438

Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain, 434

Thou mighty Prince of Church and State, 557

Thou Royal River, born of sun and shower, 443

Thou that from the heaven’s art, 595

Though the mills of God grind slowly, 589

Three Kings came riding from far away, 496

Three miles extended around the fields of the homestead; on three

sides, 573

Three Silences there are; the first of speech, 442

Thus closed the tale of guilt and gloom, 386

Thus for a while he stood, and mused by the shore of the ocean, 328

Thus sang the Potter at his task, 454

Thus then, much care-worn, 571

’Tis late at night, and in the realm of sleep, 435

To gallop off to town post-haste, 555

To noble heart Love doth for shelter fly, 552

Turn, turn, my wheel! Turn round and round, 454

Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom, 435

’Twas Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness, 595

Two angels, one of Life and one of Death, 465

Two good friends had Hiawatha, 270

Under a spreading chestnut-tree, 26

Under Mount Etna he lies, 481

Under the walls of Monterey, 469

Until we meet again! That is the meaning, 510

Up soared the lark into the air, 489

Viswamitra the magician, 496

Vogelweid the Minnesinger, 50

Warm and still is the summer night, 491

We sat within the farm-house old, 145

Welcome, my old friend, 49

Welcome, O Stork! that dost wing, 604

Well pleased the audience heard the tale, 410

What an image of peace and rest, 507

What phantom is this, that appears, 503

What say the Bells of San Blas, 516

What was the end? I am ashamed, 402

When by night the frogs are croaking, 589

When descends on the Atlantic, 51

When first in ancient time from Jubal’s tongue, 518

When Mazáran, the magician, 498

When the dying flame of day, 4

When the hours of Day are numbered, 9

When the long murmur of applause, 406

When the summer harvest was gathered in, 37

When the warm sun, that brings, 1

When winter winds are piercing chill, 4

Whene’er a noble deed is wrought, 476

Where, from the eye of day, 528

Whereunto is money good?, 588

Whilom Love was like a fire, 589

White swan of cities, slumbering in thy nest, 439

Whither, thou turbid wave, 591

Who love would seek, 596

Why dost thou wildly rush and roar, 514

Will then, du Perrier, thy sorrow be eternal, 558

With favouring winds, o’er sunlit seas, 511

With what a glory comes and goes the year, 2

Witlaf, a king of the Saxons, 153

Ye voices, that arose, 14

Yes, the Year is growing old, 13

Yes, well your story pleads the cause, 396

Yet not in vain. O River of Yesterday, 440

You shall hear how Hiawatha, 267

You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis, 282, 296

You were not at the play to-night, Don Carlos, 55

THE END.

MORRISON AND GIBB, EDINBURGH,

PRINTERS TO HER MAJESTY’S STATIONERY OFFICE.