Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window-lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore,--
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore:--
'Tis the wind, and nothing more."
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepp'd a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopp'd or stay'd he,
But, with mien of lord or lady, perch'd above my chamber-door;
Perch'd upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber-door;--
Perch'd, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure
no craven,
Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the Nightly
shore;--
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvell'd this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we can not help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was bless'd with seeing bird above his chamber-door,--
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber-door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he utter'd, not a feather then he flutter'd,
Till I scarcely more than mutter'd, "Other friends have flown
before:
On the morrow _he_ will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful Disaster
Follow'd fast, and follow'd faster, till his songs one burden
bore,--
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore,
Of--'Never--Nevermore.'"
But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheel'd a cushion'd seat in front of bird, and bust,
and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore--
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore--
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burn'd into my bosom's core:
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er;
But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
_She_ shall press--ah! nevermore.
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath
sent thee--
Respite, respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, Oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest toss'd thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted,
On this home by Horror haunted,--tell me truly, I implore,
Is there--_is_ there balm in Gilead? tell me--tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore,
Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore,--
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shriek'd,
upstarting,--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my
door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the
floor:
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted--NEVERMORE!
LIII. DAVID SWAN--A FANTASY.
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.--1804-1864.
_From_ "TWICE-TOLD TALES."
We can be but partially acquainted even with the events which actually
influence our course through life, and our final destiny. There are
innumerable other events, if such they may be called, which come close
upon us, yet pass away without actual results, or even betraying their
near approach by the reflection of any light or shadow across our minds.
Could we know all the vicissitudes of our fortunes, life would be too
full of hope and fear, exultation or disappointment, to afford us a
single hour of true serenity. This idea may be illustrated by a page
from the secret history of David Swan.
We have nothing to do with David until we find him, at the age of
twenty, on the high road from his native place to the city of Boston,
where his uncle, a small dealer in the grocery line, was to take him
behind the counter. Be it enough to say, that he was a native of New
Hampshire, born of respectable parents, and had received an ordinary
school education, with a classic finish by a year at Gilmanton Academy.
After journeying on foot from sunrise till nearly noon of a summer's
day, his weariness and the increasing heat determined him to sit down in
the first convenient shade, and await the coming up of the stage-coach.
As if planted on purpose for him, there soon appeared a little tuft of
maples, with a delightful recess in the midst, and such a fresh bubbling
spring, that it seemed never to have sparkled for any wayfarer but David
Swan. Virgin or not, he kissed it with his thirsty lips, and then flung
himself along the brink, pillowing his head upon some shirts and a pair
of pantaloons, tied up in a striped cotton handkerchief. The sunbeams
could not reach him; the dust did not yet rise from the road, after the
heavy rain of yesterday; and his grassy lair suited the young man better
than a bed of down. The spring murmured drowsily beside him; the
branches waved dreamily across the blue sky overhead; and a deep sleep,
perchance hiding dreams within its depths, fell upon David Swan. But we
are to relate events which he did not dream of.
While he lay sound asleep in the shade, other people were wide-awake,
and passed to an fro, afoot, on horseback, and in all sorts of vehicles,
along the sunny road by his bed-chamber. Some looked neither to the
right hand nor to the left, and knew not that he was there; some merely
glanced that way, without admitting the slumberer among their busy
thoughts; some laughed to see how soundly he slept; and several, whose
hearts were brimming full of scorn, ejected their venomous superfluity
upon David Swan. A middle-aged widow, when nobody else was near, thrust
her head a little way into the recess, and vowed that the young fellow
looked charming in his sleep. A temperance lecturer saw him, and wrought
poor David into the texture of his evening's discourse, as an awful
instance of dead-drunkenness by the road-side. But censure, praise,
merriment, scorn, and indifference, were all one, or rather all nothing,
to David Swan.
He had slept only a few moments when a brown carriage, drawn by a
handsome pair of horses, bowled easily along, and was brought to a
stand-still nearly in front of David's resting-place. A linch-pin had
fallen out, and permitted one of the wheels to slide off. The damage was
slight, and occasioned merely a momentary alarm to an elderly merchant
and his wife, who were returning to Boston in the carriage. While the
coachman and a servant were replacing the wheel, the lady and gentleman
sheltered themselves beneath the maple-trees, and there espied the
bubbling fountain, and David Swan asleep beside it. Impressed with the
awe which the humblest sleeper usually sheds around him, the merchant
trod as lightly as the gout would allow; and his spouse took good heed
not to rustle her silk gown, lest David should start up, all of a
sudden.
"How soundly he sleeps!" whispered the old gentleman. "From what a depth
he draws that easy breath! Such sleep as that, brought on without an
opiate, would be worth more to me than half my income, for it would
suppose health and an untroubled mind."
"And youth besides," said the lady. "Healthy and quiet age does not
sleep thus. Our slumber is no more like his than our wakefulness."
The longer they looked, the more did this elderly couple feel interested
in the unknown youth, to whom the wayside and the maple shade were as a
secret chamber, with the rich gloom of damask curtains brooding over
him. Perceiving that a stray sunbeam glimmered down upon his face, the
lady contrived to twist a branch aside, so as to intercept it. And
having done this little act of kindness, she began to feel like a mother
to him.
"Providence seems to have laid him here," whispered she to her husband,
"and to have brought us hither to find him, after our disappointment in
our cousin's son. Methinks I can see a likeness to our departed Henry.
Shall we waken him?"
"To what purpose?" said the merchant, hesitating. "We know nothing of
the youth's character."
"That open countenance!" replied his wife, in the same hushed voice, yet
earnestly. "This innocent sleep!"
While these whispers were passing, the sleeper's heart did not throb,
nor his breath become agitated, nor his features betray the least token
of interest. Yet Fortune was bending over him, just ready to let fall a
burthen of gold. The old merchant had lost his only son, and had no heir
to his wealth, except a distant relative, with whose conduct he was
dissatisfied. In such cases, people sometimes do stranger things than to
act the magician, and awaken a young man to splendor, who fell asleep in
poverty.
"Shall we not waken him?" repeated the lady, persuasively.
"The coach is ready, sir," said the servant, behind.
The old couple started, reddened, and hurried away, mutually wondering
that they should ever have dreamed of doing anything so very ridiculous.
The merchant threw himself back in the carriage, and occupied his mind
with the plan of a magnificent asylum for unfortunate men of business.
Meanwhile, David Swan enjoyed his nap.
The carriage could not have gone above a mile or two, when a pretty
young girl came along with a tripping pace, which showed precisely how
her little heart was dancing in her bosom. Perhaps it was this merry
kind of motion that caused--is there any harm in saying it?--her garter
to slip its knot. Conscious that the silken girth, if silk it were, was
relaxing its hold, she turned aside into the shelter of the maple-trees,
and there found a young man asleep by the spring! Blushing as red as any
rose, that she should have intruded into a gentleman's bed-chamber, and
for such a purpose, too, she was about to make her escape on tiptoe. But
there was peril near the sleeper. A monster of a bee had been wandering
overhead--buzz, buzz, buzz--now among the leaves, now flashing through
the strips of sunshine, and now lost in the dark shade, till finally he
appeared to be settling on the eyelid of David Swan. The sting of a bee
is sometimes deadly. As free-hearted as she was innocent, the girl
attacked the intruder with her handkerchief, brushed him soundly, and
drove him from the maple shade. How sweet a picture! This good deed
accomplished, with quickened breath, and a deeper blush, she stole a
glance at the youthful stranger, for whom she had been battling with a
dragon in the air.
"He is handsome!" thought she, and blushed redder yet.
How could it be that no dream of bliss grew so strong within him, that,
shattered by its very strength, it should part asunder, and allow him to
perceive the girl among its phantoms? Why, at least, did no smile of
welcome brighten upon his face? She was come, the maid whose soul,
according to the old and beautiful idea, had been severed from his own,
and whom, in all his vague but passionate desires, he yearned to meet.
Her only could he love with a perfect love--him only could she receive
into the depths of her heart--and now her image was faintly blushing in
the fountain by his side; should it pass away, its happy lustre would
never gleam upon his life again.
"How sound he sleeps!" murmured the girl.
She departed, but did not trip along the road so lightly as when she
came.
Now, this girl's father was a thriving country merchant in the
neighborhood, and happened, at that identical time, to be looking out
for just such a young man as David Swan. Had David formed a wayside
acquaintance with the daughter, he would have become the father's clerk,
and all else in natural succession. So here, again, had good
fortune--the best of fortunes--stolen so near, that her garments brushed
against him; and he knew nothing of the matter.
The girl was hardly out of sight, when two men turned aside beneath the
maple shade. Both had dark faces, set off by cloth caps, which were
drawn down aslant over their brows. Their dresses were shabby, yet had a
certain smartness. These were a couple of rascals, who got their living
by whatever the devil sent them, and now, in the interim of other
business, had staked the joint profits of their next piece of villainy
on a game of cards, which was to have been decided here under the trees.
But, finding David asleep by the spring, one of the rogues whispered to
his fellow--
"Hist!--Do you see that bundle under his head?"
The other villain nodded, winked, and leered.
"I'll bet you a horn of brandy," said the first, "that the chap has
either a pocket-book or a snug little hoard of small change, stowed away
amongst his shirts. And if not there, we shall find it in his
pantaloons' pocket."
"But how if he wakes?" said the other.
His companion thrust aside his waistcoat, pointed to the handle of a
dirk, and nodded.
"So be it!" muttered the second villain.
They approached the unconscious David, and, while one pointed the dagger
towards his heart, the other began to search the bundle beneath his
head. Their two faces, grim, wrinkled, and ghastly with guilt and fear,
bent over their victim, looking horribly enough to be mistaken for
fiends, should he suddenly awake. Nay, had the villains glanced aside
into the spring, even they would hardly have known themselves, as
reflected there. But David Swan had never worn a more tranquil aspect,
even when asleep on his mother's breast.
"I must take away the bundle," whispered one.
"If he stirs, I'll strike," muttered the other.
But, at this moment, a dog, scenting along the ground, came in beneath
the maple-trees, and gazed alternately at each of these wicked men, and
then at the quiet sleeper. He then lapped out of the fountain.
"Pshaw!" said one villain. "We can do nothing now. The dog's master must
be close behind."
"Let's take a drink, and be off," said the other.
The man with the dagger thrust back the weapon into his bosom, and drew
forth a pocket-pistol, but not of that kind which kills by a single
discharge. It was a flask of liquor, with a block-tin tumbler screwed
upon the mouth. Each drank a comfortable dram, and left the spot, with
so many jests, and such laughter at their unaccomplished wickedness,
that they might be said to have gone on their way rejoicing. In a few
hours they had forgotten the whole affair, nor once imagined that the
recording angel had written down the crime of murder against their
souls, in letters as durable as eternity. As for David Swan, he still
slept quietly, neither conscious of the shadow of death when it hung
over him, nor of the glow of renewed life when that shadow was
withdrawn.
He slept, but no longer so quietly as at first. An hour's repose had
snatched from his elastic frame the weariness with which many hours of
toil had burthened it. Now he stirred--now moved his lips, without a
sound--now talked in an inward tone to the noonday spectres of his
dream. But a noise of wheels came rattling louder and louder along the
road, until it dashed through the dispersing mist of David's
slumber--and there was the stage-coach. He started up, with all his
ideas about him.
"Hallo, driver! Take a passenger?" shouted he.
"Room on top!" answered the driver.
Up mounted David, and bowled away merrily towards Boston, without so
much as a parting glance at that fountain of dreamlike vicissitude. He
knew not that a phantom of Wealth had thrown a golden hue upon its
waters, nor that one of Love had sighed softly to their murmur, nor that
one of Death had threatened to crimson them with his blood--all, in the
brief hour since he lay down to sleep. Sleeping or waking, we hear not
the airy footsteps of the strange things that almost happen. Does it not
argue a superintending Providence, that, while viewless and unexpected
events thrust themselves continually athwart our path, there should
still be regularity enough in mortal life, to render foresight even
partially available?
LIV. MY KATE.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.--1809-1861.
She was not as pretty as women I know,
And yet all your best made of sunshine and snow
Drop to shade, melt to nought in the long-trodden ways,
While she's still remember'd on warm and cold days--
My Kate.
Her air had a meaning, her movements a grace;
You turn'd from the fairest to gaze on her face:
And when you had once seen her forehead and mouth,
You saw as distinctly her soul and her truth--
My Kate.
Such a blue inner light from her eyelids outbroke,
You look'd at her silence and fancied she spoke:
When she did, so peculiar yet soft was the tone,
Though the loudest spoke also, you heard her alone--
My Kate.
I doubt if she said to you much that could act
As a thought or suggestion: she did not attract
In the sense of the brilliant or wise: I infer
'Twas her thinking of others, made you think of her--
My Kate.
She never found fault with you, never implied
Your wrong by her right; and yet men at her side
Grew nobler, girls purer, as through the whole town
The children were gladder that pull'd at her gown--
My Kate.
None knelt at her feet confess'd lovers in thrall;
They knelt more to God than they used,--that was all;
If you praised her as charming, some ask'd what you meant,
But the charm of her presence was felt when she went--
My Kate.
The weak and the gentle, the ribald and rude,
She took as she found them, and did them all good:
It always was so with her: see what you have!
She has made the grass greener even here ... with her grave--
My Kate.
My dear one!--when thou wast alive with the rest,
I held thee the sweetest and lov'd thee the best:
And now thou art dead, shall I not take thy part
As thy smiles used to do for thyself, my sweet Heart--
My Kate?
LV. A DEAD ROSE.
MRS. BROWNING.
O Rose, who dares to name thee?
No longer roseate now, nor soft nor sweet,
But pale and hard and dry as stubble wheat,--
Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee.
The breeze that used to blow thee
Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away
An odor up the lane to last all day,--
If breathing now, unsweeten'd would forego thee.
The sun that used to smite thee,
And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn
Till beam appear'd to bloom, and flower to burn,--
If shining now, with not a hue would light thee.
The dew that used to wet thee,
And, white first, grow incarnadined because
It lay upon thee where the crimson was,--
If dropping now, would darken where it met thee.
The fly that 'lit upon thee
To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet
Along thy leafs pure edges after heat,--
If 'lighting now, would coldly overrun thee.
The bee that once did suck thee,
And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,
And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,--
If passing now, would blindly overlook thee.
The heart doth recognize thee,
Alone, alone! the heart doth smell thee sweet,
Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete,
Perceiving all those changes that disguise thee.
Yes, and the heart doth owe thee
More love, dead rose, than to any roses bold
Which Julia wears at dances, smiling cold:--
Lie still upon this heart which breaks below thee!
LVI. TO THE EVENING WIND.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.--1794-1878.
Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day,
Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow;
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,
Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,
Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray,
And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee
To the scorch'd land, thou wanderer of the sea.
Nor I alone;--a thousand bosoms round
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight;
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound
Livelier at coming of the wind of night;
And languishing to hear thy grateful sound,
Lies the vast inland stretch'd beyond the sight.
Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth,
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!
Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest,
Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse
The wide old wood from his majestic rest,
Summoning from the innumerable boughs
The strange deep harmonies that haunt his breast;
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass,
And where the o'er-shadowing branches sweep the grass.
The faint old man shall lean his silver head
To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep,
And dry the moisten'd curls that overspread
His temples, while his breathing grows more deep;
And they who stand about the sick man's bed
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,
And softly part his curtains to allow
Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.
Go,--but the circle of eternal change,
Which is the life of nature, shall restore,
With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range,
Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more;
Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange,
Shall tell the homesick mariner of the shore;
And, listening to thy murmur, he shall dream
He hears the rustling leaf and running stream.
LVII.--DEATH OF THE PROTECTOR.[M]
THOMAS CARLYLE.--1795-1881.
_From_ OLIVER CROMWELL'S LETTERS AND SPEECHES.
And so we have now nothing more;--and Oliver has nothing more. His
Speakings, and also his Actings, all his manifold Strugglings, more or
less victorious, to utter the great God's-Message that was in him,--have
here what we call ended. This Summer of 1658, likewise victorious after
struggle, is his last in our World of Time. Thenceforth he enters the
Eternities; and rests upon his arms _there_.
Oliver's look was yet strong; and young for his years, which were
Fifty-nine last April. The "Three-score and ten years," the Psalmist's
limit, which probably was often in Oliver's thoughts and in those of
others there, might have been anticipated for him: Ten Years more of
Life;--which, we may compute, would have given another History to all
the Centuries of England. But it was not to be so, it was to be
otherwise. Oliver's health, as we might observe, was but uncertain in
late times; often "indisposed" the spring before last. His course of
life had not been favorable to health! "A burden too heavy for man!" as
he himself, with a sigh, would sometimes say. Incessant toil;
inconceivable labor, of head and heart and hand; toil, peril, and sorrow
manifold, continued for near Twenty years now, had done their part:
those robust life-energies, it afterwards appeared, had been gradually
eaten out. Like a Tower strong to the eye, but with its foundations
undermined; which has not long to stand; the fall of which, on any
shock, may be sudden.--