The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF HENRY WADSWORTH COMPLETE WORKS OF LONGFELLOW

(From the PUBLISHER’S NOTE: “The present Household Edition of Mr.

Longfellow’s Poetical Writings . . . contains all his original

verse that he wished to preserve, and all his translations except

the Divina Commedia. The poems are printed as nearly as possible

in chronological order . . . Boston, Autumn, 1902.” Houghton

Mifflin Company.)

CONTENTS.

VOICES OF THE NIGHT.

Prelude

Hymn to the Night

A Psalm of Life

The Reaper and the Flowers

The Light of Stars

Footsteps of Angels

Flowers

The Beleaguered City

Midnight Mass for the Dying Year

EARLIER POEMS.

An April Day

Autumn

Woods in Winter

Hymn of the Moravian Nuns of Bethlehem

Sunrise on the Hills

The Spirit of Poetry

Burial of the Minnisink

L’Envoi

BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS.

The Skeleton in Armor

The Wreck of the Hesperus

The Village Blacksmith

Endymion

It is not Always May

The Rainy Day

God’s-Acre

To the River Charles

Blind Bartimeus

The Goblet of Life

Maidenhood

Excelsior

POEMS ON SLAVERY.

To William E. Channing

The Slave’s Dream

The Good Part, that shall not be taken away

The Slave in the Dismal Swamp

The Slave singing at Midnight

The Witnesses

The Quadroon Girl

The Warning

THE SPANISH STUDENT.

THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS.

Carillon

The Belfry of Bruges

A Gleam of Sunshine

The Arsenal at Springfield

Nuremberg

The Norman Baron

Rain In Summer

To a Child

The Occultation of Orion

The Bridge

To the Driving Cloud

SONGS

The Day Is done

Afternoon in February

To an Old Danish Song-Book

Walter von der Vogelweid

Drinking Song

The Old Clock on the Stairs

The Arrow and the Song

SONNETS

Mezzo Cammin

The Evening Star

Autumn

Dante

Curfew

EVANGELINE: A TALE OF ACADIE.

THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE.

Dedication

BY THE SEASIDE.

The Building of the Ship

Seaweed

Chrysaor

The Secret of the Sea

Twilight

Sir Humphrey Gilbert

The Lighthouse

The Fire of Drift-Wood

BY THE FIRESIDE.

Resignation

The Builders

Sand of the Desert In an Hour-Glass

The Open Window

King Witlaf’s Drinking-Horn

Gaspar Becerra

Pegasus in Pound

Tegnér’s Drapa

Sonnet on Mrs. Kemble’s Reading from Shakespeare

The Singers

Suspiria

Hymn for my Brother’s Ordination

THE SONG OF HIAWATHA.

Introduction

I. The Peace-Pipe

II. The Four Winds

III. Hiawatha’s Childhood

IV. Hiawatha and Mudjekeewis

V. Hiawatha’s Fasting

VI. Hiawatha’s Friends

VII. Hiawatha’s Sailing

VIII. Hiawatha’s Fishing

IX. Hiawatha and the Pearl-Feather

X. Hiawatha’s Wooing

XI. Hiawatha’s Wedding-Feast

XII. The Son of the Evening Star

XIII. Blessing the Cornfields

XIV. Picture-Writing

XV. Hiawatha’s Lamentation

XVI. Pau-Puk-Keewis

XVII. The Hunting of Pau-Puk-Keewis

XVIII. The Death of Kwasind

XIX. The Ghosts

XX. The Famine

XXI. The White Man’s Foot

XXII. Hiawatha’s Departure

<NOTES>

THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH.

I. Miles Standish

II. Love and Friendship

III. The Lover’s Errand

IV. John Alden

V. The Sailing of the May flower

VI. Priscilla

VII. The March of Miles Standish

VIII. The Spinning-Wheel

IX. The Wedding-Day

BIRDS OF PASSAGE.

FLIGHT THE FIRST.

Birds of Passage

Prometheus, or the Poet’s Forethought

Epimetheus, or the Poet’s Afterthought

The Ladder of St. Augustine

The Phantom Ship

The Warden of the Cinque Ports

Haunted Houses

In the Churchyard at Cambridge

The Emperor’s Bird’s-Nest

The Two Angels

Daylight and Moonlight

The Jewish Cemetery at Newport

Oliver Basselin

Victor Galbraith

My Lost Youth

The Ropewalk

The Golden Mile-Stone

Catawba Wine

Santa Filomena

The Discoverer of the North Cape

Daybreak

The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz

Children

Sandalphon

FLIGHT THE SECOND.

The Children’s Hour

Enceladus

The Cumberland

Snow-Flakes

A Day of Sunshine

Something left Undone

Weariness

TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN.

Part First

Prelude

The Wayside Inn

The Landlord’s Tale

Paul Revere’s Ride

Interlude

The Student’s Tale

The Falcon of Ser Federigo

Interlude

The Spanish Jew’s Tale

The Legend of Rabbi Ben Levi

Interlude

The Sicilian’s Tale

King Robert of Sicily

Interlude

The Musician’s Tale

The Saga of King Olaf

I. The Challenge of Thor

II. King Olaf’s Return

III. Thora of Rimol

IV. Queen Sigrid the Haughty

V. The Skerry of Shrieks

VI. The Wraith of Odin

VII. Iron-Beard

VIII. Gudrun

IX. Thangbrand the Priest

X. Raud the Strong

XI. Bishop Sigurd at Salten Fiord

XII. King Olaf’s Christmas

XIII. The Building of the Long Serpent

XIV. The Crew of the Long Serpent

XV. A Little Bird in the Air

XVI. Queen Thyri and the Angelica Stalks

XVII. King Svend of the Forked Beard

XVIII. King Olaf and Earl Sigvald

XIX. King Olaf’s War-Horns

XX. Einar Tamberskelver

XXI. King Olaf’s Death-drink

XXII. The Nun of Nidaros

Interlude

The Theologian’s Tale.

Torquemada

Interlude

The Poet’s Tale

The Birds of Killingworth

Finale

PART SECOND.

Prelude

The Sicilian’s Tale

The Bell of Atri

Interlude

The Spanish Jew’s Tale

Kambalu

Interlude

The Student’s Tale

The Cobbler of Hagenau

Interlude

The Musician’s Tale

The Ballad of Carmilhan

Interlude

The Poet’s Tale

Lady Wentworth

Interlude

The Theologian’s Tale

The Legend Beautiful

Interlude

The Student’s Second Tale

The Baron of St. Castine

Finale

PART THIRD.

Prelude

The Spanish Jew’s Tale

Azrael

Interlude

The Poet’s Tale

Charlemagne

Interlude

The Student’s Tale

Emma and Eginhard

Interlude

The Theologian’s Tale

Elizabeth

Interlude

The Sicilian’s Tale

The Monk of Casa-Maggiore

Interlude

The Spanish Jew’s Second Tale

Scanderbeg

Interlude

The Musician’s Tale

The Mother’s Ghost

Interlude

The Landlord’s Tale

The Rhyme of Sir Christopher

Finale

FLOWER-DE-LUCE.

Flower-de-Luce

Palingenesis

The Bridge of Cloud

Hawthorne

Christmas Bells

The Wind over the Chimney

The Bells of Lynn

Killed at the Ford

Giotto’s Tower

To-morrow

Divina Commedia

Noël

BIRDS OF PASSAGE

FLIGHT THE THIRD.

Fata Morgana

The Haunted Chamber

The Meeting

Vox Populi

The Castle-Builder

Changed

The Challenge

The Brook and the Wave

Aftermath

THE MASQUE OF PANDORA.

I. The Workshop of Hephæstus

II. Olympus

III. Tower of Prometheus on Mount Caucasus

IV. The Air

V. The House of Epimetheus

VI. In the Garden

VII. The House of Epimetheus

VIII. In the Garden

THE HANGING OF THE CRANE

MORITURI SALUTAMUS

A BOOK OF SONNETS.

Three Friends of Mine

Chaucer

Shakespeare

Milton

Keats

The Galaxy

The Sound of the Sea

A Summer Day by the Sea

The Tides

A Shadow

A Nameless Grave

Sleep

The Old Bridge at Florence

Il Ponte Vecchio di Firenze

Nature

In the Churchyard at Tarrytown

Eliot’s Oak

The Descent of the Muses

Venice

The Poets

Parker Cleaveland

The Harvest Moon

To the River Rhone

The Three Silences of Molinos

The Two Rivers

Boston

St. John’s, Cambridge

Moods

Woodstock Park

The Four Princesses at Wilna

Holidays

Wapentake

The Broken Oar

The Cross of Snow

BIRDS OF PASSAGE

FLIGHT THE FOURTH.

Charles Sumner

Travels by the Fireside

Cadenabbia

Monte Cassino

Amalfi

The Sermon of St. Francis

Belisarius

Songo River

KERAMOS

BIRDS OF PASSAGE.

FLIGHT THE FIFTH.

The Herons of Elmwood

A Dutch Picture

Castles in Spain

Vittoria Colonna

The Revenge of Rain-in-the-Face

To the River Yvette

The Emperor’s Glove

A Ballad or the French Fleet

The Leap of Roushan Beg

Haroun Al Raschid.

King Trisanku

A Wraith in the Mist

The Three Kings

Song: “Stay, Stay at Home, my Heart, and Rest.”

The White Czar

Delia

ULTIMA THULE.

Dedication

Poems

Bayard Taylor

The Chamber over the Gate

From my Arm-Chair

Jugurtha

The Iron Pen

Robert Burns

Helen of Tyre

Elegiac

Old St. David’s at Radnor

FOLK-SONGS.

The Sifting of Peter

Maiden and Weathercock

The Windmill

The Tide Rises, the Tide Falls

SONNETS

My Cathedral

The Burial of the Poet

Night

L’ENVOI.

The Poet and his Songs

IN THE HARBOR.

Becalmed

The Poet’s Calendar

Autumn Within

The Four Lakes of Madison

Victor and Vanquished

Moonlight

The Children’s Crusade

Sundown

Chimes

Four by the Clock

Auf Wiedersehen

Elegiac Verse

The City and the Sea

Memories

Hermes Trismegistus

To the Avon

President Garfield

My Books

Mad River

Possibilities

Decoration Day

A Fragment

Loss and Gain

Inscription on the Shanklin Fountain

The Bells of San Blas

FRAGMENTS.

“Neglected record of a mind neglected”

“O Faithful, indefatigable tides”

“Soft through the silent air”

“So from the bosom of darkness”

CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY.

Introitus

PART I. THE DIVINE TRAGEDY.

The First Passover

I. Vox Clamantis

II. Mount Quarantania

III. The Marriage in Cana

IV. In the Cornfields

V. Nazareth

VI. The Sea of Galilee

VII. The Demoniac of Gadara

IX. The Tower of Magdala

X. The House of Simon the Pharisee

The Second Passover

I. Before the Gates of Machaerus

II. Herod’s Banquet-Hall

III. Under the Wall of Machaerus

IV. Nicodemus at Night

V. Blind Bartimeus

VI. Jacob’s Well

VII. The Coasts of Caesarea Philippi

VIII. The Young Ruler

IX. At Bethany

X. Born Blind

XI. Simon Magus and Helen of Tyre

The Third Passover

I. The Entry into Jerusalem

II. Solomon’s Porch

III. Lord, is it I?

IV. The Garden of Gethsemane

V. The Palace of Caiaphas

VI. Pontius Pilate

VII. Barabbas in Prison

VIII. Ecce Homo

IX. Aceldama

X. The Three Crosses

XI. The Two Maries

XII. The Sea of Galilee

Epilogue. Symbolum Apostolorum

First Interlude. The Abbot Joachim

PART II. THE GOLDEN LEGEND.

Prologue: The Spire of Strasburg Cathedral

I. The Castle of Vautsberg on the Rhine

Courtyard of the Castle

II. A Farm in the Odenwald

A Room in the Farmhouse

Elsie’s Chamber

The Chamber of Gottlieb and Ursula

A Village Church

A Room in the Farmhouse

In the Garden

III. A Street in Strasburg

Square in Front of the Cathedral

In the Cathedral

The Nativity: A Miracle-Play

Introitus

I. Heaven

II. Mary at the Well

III. The Angels of the Seven Planets

IV. The Wise Men of the East

V. The Flight into Egypt

VI. The Slaughter of the Innocents

VII. Jesus at Play with his Schoolmates

VIII. The Village School

IX. Crowned with Flowers

Epilogue

IV. The Road to Hirschau

The Convent of Hirschau in the Black Forest

The Scriptorium

The Cloisters

The Chapel

The Refectory

The Neighboring Nunnery

V. A Covered Bridge at Lucerne

The Devil’s Bridge

The St. Gothard Pass

At the Foot of the Alps

The Inn at Genoa

At Sea

VI. The School of Salerno

The Farm-house in the Odenwald

The Castle of Vautsberg on the Rhine

Epilogue. The Two Recording Angels Ascending

Second Interlude. Martin Luther

PART III. THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES.

John Endicott

Giles Corey of the Salem Farms

Finale. St. John

JUDAS MACCABAEUS

Act I. The Citadel of Antiochus at Jerusalem

Act II. The Dungeons in the Citadel

Act III. The Battle-field of Beth-Horon

Act IV. The Outer Courts of the Temple at Jerusalem

Act V. The Mountains of Ecbatana

MICHAEL ANGELO

Dedication

PART FIRST

I. Prologue at Ischia

Monologue : The Last Judgment

II. San Silvestro

III. Cardinal Ippolito

IV. Borgo delle Vergine at Naples

V. Vittoria Colonna

PART SECOND.

I. Monologue

II. Viterbo

III. Michael Angelo and Benvenuto Cellini

IV. Fra Sebastiano del Piombo

V. Palazzo Belvedere

VI. Palazzo Cesarini

PART THIRD.

I. Monologue

II. Vigna di Papa Giulio

III. Bindo Altoviti

IV. In the Coliseum

V. Macello de’ Corvi

VI. Michael Angelo’s Studio

VII. The Oaks of Monte Luca

VIII. The Dead Christ

TRANSLATIONS.

Prelude

From the Spanish

Coplas de Manrique

Sonnets.

I. The Good Shepherd

II. To-morrow

III. The Native Land

IV. The Image of God

V. The Brook

Ancient Spanish Ballads.

I. Rio Verde, Rio Verde

II. Don Nuno, Count of Lara

III. The peasant leaves his plough afield

Vida de San Millan

San Miguel, the Convent

Song: “She is a maid of artless grace”

Santa Teresa’s Book-Mark

From the Cancioneros

I. Eyes so tristful, eyes so tristful

II. Some day, some day

III. Come, O death, so silent flying

IV. Glove of black in white hand bare

From the Swedish and Danish.

Passages from Frithiof’s Saga

I. Frithiof’s Homestead

II. A Sledge-Ride on the Ice

III. Frithiof’s Temptation

IV. Frithiof’s Farewell

The Children of the Lord’s Supper

King Christian

The Elected Knight

Childhood

From the German.

The Happiest Land

The Wave

The Dead

The Bird and the Ship

Whither?

Beware!

Song of the Bell

The Castle by the Sea

The Black Knight

Song of the Silent Land

The Luck of Edenhall

The Two Locks of Hair

The Hemlock Tree

Annie of Tharaw

The Statue over the Cathedral Door

The Legend of the Crossbill

The Sea hath its Pearls

Poetic Aphorisms

Silent Love

Blessed are the Dead

Wanderer’s Night-Songs

Remorse

Forsaken

Allah

From the Anglo-Saxon.

The Grave

Beowulf’s Expedition to Heort

The Soul’s Complaint against the Body

From the French

Song: Hark! Hark!

Song: “And whither goest thou, gentle sigh”

The Return of Spring

Spring

The Child Asleep

Death of Archbishop Turpin

The Blind Girl of Castel-Cuille

A Christmas Carol

Consolation

To Cardinal Richelieu

The Angel and the Child

On the Terrace of the Aigalades

To my Brooklet

Barréges

Will ever the dear days come back again?

At La Chaudeau

A Quiet Life

The Wine of Jurançon

Friar Lubin

Rondel

My Secret

From the Italian.

The Celestial Pilot

The Terrestrial Paradise

Beatrice

To Italy

Seven Sonnets and a Canzone

I. The Artist

II. Fire.

III. Youth and Age

IV. Old Age

V. To Vittoria Colonna

VI. To Vittoria Colonna

VII. Dante

VIII. Canzone

The Nature of Love

From the Portuguese.

Song: If thou art sleeping, maiden

From Eastern sources.

The Fugitive

The Siege of Kazan

The Boy and the Brook

To the Stork

From the Latin.

Virgils First Eclogue

Ovid in Exile

VOICES OF THE NIGHT

Πότνια, πότνια νὺξ,

ὑπνοδότειρα τῶν πολυπόνον βροτῶν,

Ἐρεβόθεν ἴθι μόλε μόλε κατάπτερος

Ἀγαμεμνόνιον ἐπὶ δόμον

ὑπὸ γὰρ ἀλγέων, ὑπὸ τε συμφορᾶς

διοιχόμεθ’, οἰχόμεθα.

EURIPIDES.

PRELUDE

Pleasant it was, when woods were green,

And winds were soft and low,

To lie amid some sylvan scene.

Where, the long drooping boughs between,

Shadows dark and sunlight sheen

Alternate come and go;

Or where the denser grove receives

No sunlight from above,

But the dark foliage interweaves

In one unbroken roof of leaves,

Underneath whose sloping eaves

The shadows hardly move.

Beneath some patriarchal tree

I lay upon the ground;

His hoary arms uplifted he,

And all the broad leaves over me

Clapped their little hands in glee,

With one continuous sound;—

A slumberous sound, a sound that brings

The feelings of a dream,

As of innumerable wings,

As, when a bell no longer swings,

Faint the hollow murmur rings

O’er meadow, lake, and stream.

And dreams of that which cannot die,

Bright visions, came to me,

As lapped in thought I used to lie,

And gaze into the summer sky,

Where the sailing clouds went by,

Like ships upon the sea;

Dreams that the soul of youth engage

Ere Fancy has been quelled;

Old legends of the monkish page,

Traditions of the saint and sage,

Tales that have the rime of age,

And chronicles of Eld.

And, loving still these quaint old themes,

Even in the city’s throng

I feel the freshness of the streams,

That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams,

Water the green land of dreams,

The holy land of song.

Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings

The Spring, clothed like a bride,

When nestling buds unfold their wings,

And bishop’s-caps have golden rings,

Musing upon many things,

I sought the woodlands wide.

The green trees whispered low and mild;

It was a sound of joy!

They were my playmates when a child,

And rocked me in their arms so wild!

Still they looked at me and smiled,

As if I were a boy;

And ever whispered, mild and low,

“Come, be a child once more!”

And waved their long arms to and fro,

And beckoned solemnly and slow;

O, I could not choose but go

Into the woodlands hoar,—

Into the blithe and breathing air,

Into the solemn wood,

Solemn and silent everywhere

Nature with folded hands seemed there

Kneeling at her evening prayer!

Like one in prayer I stood.

Before me rose an avenue

Of tall and sombrous pines;

Abroad their fan-like branches grew,

And, where the sunshine darted through,

Spread a vapor soft and blue,

In long and sloping lines.

And, falling on my weary brain,

Like a fast-falling shower,

The dreams of youth came back again,

Low lispings of the summer rain,

Dropping on the ripened grain,

As once upon the flower.

Visions of childhood! Stay, O stay!

Ye were so sweet and wild!

And distant voices seemed to say,

“It cannot be! They pass away!

Other themes demand thy lay;

Thou art no more a child!

“The land of Song within thee lies,

Watered by living springs;

The lids of Fancy’s sleepless eyes

Are gates unto that Paradise,

Holy thoughts, like stars, arise,

Its clouds are angels’ wings.

“Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be,

Not mountains capped with snow,

Nor forests sounding like the sea,

Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly,

Where the woodlands bend to see

The bending heavens below.

“There is a forest where the din

Of iron branches sounds!

A mighty river roars between,

And whosoever looks therein

Sees the heavens all black with sin,

Sees not its depths, nor bounds.

“Athwart the swinging branches cast,

Soft rays of sunshine pour;

Then comes the fearful wintry blast

Our hopes, like withered leaves, fail fast;

Pallid lips say, ‘It is past!

We can return no more!’

“Look, then, into thine heart, and write!

Yes, into Life’s deep stream!

All forms of sorrow and delight,

All solemn Voices of the Night,

That can soothe thee, or affright,—

Be these henceforth thy theme.”

HYMN TO THE NIGHT

Ἀσπασίη, τρίλλιστος

I heard the trailing garments of the Night

Sweep through her marble halls!

I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light

From the celestial walls!

I felt her presence, by its spell of might,

Stoop o’er me from above;

The calm, majestic presence of the Night,

As of the one I love.

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,

The manifold, soft chimes,

That fill the haunted chambers of the Night

Like some old poet’s rhymes.

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air

My spirit drank repose;

The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,—

From those deep cisterns flows.

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear

What man has borne before!

Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,

And they complain no more.

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!

Descend with broad-winged flight,

The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,

The best-beloved Night!

A PSALM OF LIFE.

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

Life is but an empty dream!

For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal;

Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way;

But to act, that each to-morrow

Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!

Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act,—act in the living Present!

Heart within, and God o’erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,

And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time;—

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labor and to wait.

THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.

There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,

And, with his sickle keen,

He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,

And the flowers that grow between.

"Shall I have naught that is fair?" saith he;

"Have naught but the bearded grain?

Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,

I will give them all back again."

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,

He kissed their drooping leaves;

It was for the Lord of Paradise

He bound them in his sheaves.

"My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"

The Reaper said, and smiled;

"Dear tokens of the earth are they,

Where he was once a child.

"They shall all bloom in fields of light,

Transplanted by my care,

And saints, upon their garments white,

These sacred blossoms wear."

And the mother gave, in tears and pain,

The flowers she most did love;

She knew she should find them all again

In the fields of light above.

O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,

The Reaper came that day;

'T was an angel visited the green earth,

And took the flowers away.

THE LIGHT OF STARS.

The night is come, but not too soon;

And sinking silently,

All silently, the little moon

Drops down behind the sky.

There is no light in earth or heaven

But the cold light of stars;

And the first watch of night is given

To the red planet Mars.

Is it the tender star of love?

The star of love and dreams?

O no! from that blue tent above,

A hero's armor gleams.

And earnest thoughts within me rise,

When I behold afar,

Suspended in the evening skies,

The shield of that red star.

O star of strength! I see thee stand

And smile upon my pain;

Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand,

And I am strong again.

Within my breast there is no light

But the cold light of stars;

I give the first watch of the night

To the red planet Mars.

The star of the unconquered will,

He rises in my breast,

Serene, and resolute, and still,

And calm, and self-possessed.

And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art,

That readest this brief psalm,

As one by one thy hopes depart,

Be resolute and calm.

O fear not in a world like this,

And thou shalt know erelong,

Know how sublime a thing it is

To suffer and be strong.

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

When the hours of Day are numbered,

And the voices of the Night

Wake the better soul, that slumbered,

To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,

And, like phantoms grim and tall,

Shadows from the fitful firelight

Dance upon the parlor wall;

Then the forms of the departed

Enter at the open door;

The beloved, the true-hearted,

Come to visit me once more;

He, the young and strong, who cherished

Noble longings for the strife,

By the roadside fell and perished,

Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,

Who the cross of suffering bore,

Folded their pale hands so meekly,

Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the Being Beauteous,

Who unto my youth was given,

More than all things else to love me,

And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep

Comes that messenger divine,

Takes the vacant chair beside me,

Lays her gentle hand in mine.

And she sits and gazes at me

With those deep and tender eyes,

Like the stars, so still and saint-like,

Looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended,

Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,

Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,

Breathing from her lips of air.

Oh, though oft depressed and lonely,

All my fears are laid aside,

If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died!

FLOWERS.

Spake full well, in language quaint and olden,

One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,

When he called the flowers, so blue and golden,

Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine.

Stars they are, wherein we read our history,

As astrologers and seers of eld;

Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery,

Like the burning stars, which they beheld.

Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,

God hath written in those stars above;

But not less in the bright flowerets under us

Stands the revelation of his love.

Bright and glorious is that revelation,

Written all over this great world of ours;

Making evident our own creation,

In these stars of earth, these golden flowers.

And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing,

Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part

Of the self-same, universal being,

Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining,

Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,

Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining,

Buds that open only to decay;

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,

Flaunting gayly in the golden light;

Large desires, with most uncertain issues,

Tender wishes, blossoming at night!

These in flowers and men are more than seeming;

Workings are they of the self-same powers,

Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming,

Seeth in himself and in the flowers.

Everywhere about us are they glowing,

Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born;

Others, their blue eyes with tears o'er-flowing,

Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn;

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing,

And in Summer's green-emblazoned field,

But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing,

In the centre of his brazen shield;

Not alone in meadows and green alleys,

On the mountain-top, and by the brink

Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys,

Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink;

Not alone in her vast dome of glory,

Not on graves of bird and beast alone,

But in old cathedrals, high and hoary,

On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone;

In the cottage of the rudest peasant,

In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers,

Speaking of the Past unto the Present,

Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers;

In all places, then, and in all seasons,

Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings,

Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,

How akin they are to human things.

And with childlike, credulous affection

We behold their tender buds expand;

Emblems of our own great resurrection,

Emblems of the bright and better land.

THE BELEAGUERED CITY.

I have read, in some old, marvellous tale,

Some legend strange and vague,

That a midnight host of spectres pale

Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,

With the wan moon overhead,

There stood, as in an awful dream,

The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound,

The spectral camp was seen,

And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,

The river flowed between.

No other voice nor sound was there,

No drum, nor sentry's pace;

The mist-like banners clasped the air,

As clouds with clouds embrace.

But when the old cathedral bell

Proclaimed the morning prayer,

The white pavilions rose and fell

On the alarmed air.

Down the broad valley fast and far

The troubled army fled;

Up rose the glorious morning star,

The ghastly host was dead.

I have read, in the marvellous heart of man,

That strange and mystic scroll,

That an army of phantoms vast and wan

Beleaguer the human soul.

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,

In Fancy's misty light,

Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam

Portentous through the night.

Upon its midnight battle-ground

The spectral camp is seen,

And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,

Flows the River of Life between.

No other voice nor sound is there,

In the army of the grave;

No other challenge breaks the air,

But the rushing of Life's wave.

And when the solemn and deep churchbell

Entreats the soul to pray,

The midnight phantoms feel the spell,

The shadows sweep away.

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar

The spectral camp is fled;

Faith shineth as a morning star,

Our ghastly fears are dead.

MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR

Yes, the Year is growing old,

And his eye is pale and bleared!

Death, with frosty hand and cold,

Plucks the old man by the beard,

Sorely, sorely!

The leaves are falling, falling,

Solemnly and slow;

Caw! caw! the rooks are calling,

It is a sound of woe,

A sound of woe!

Through woods and mountain passes

The winds, like anthems, roll;

They are chanting solemn masses,

Singing, "Pray for this poor soul,

Pray, pray!"

And the hooded clouds, like friars,

Tell their beads in drops of rain,

And patter their doleful prayers;

But their prayers are all in vain,

All in vain!

There he stands in the foul weather,

The foolish, fond Old Year,

Crowned with wild flowers and with heather,

Like weak, despised Lear,

A king, a king!

Then comes the summer-like day,

Bids the old man rejoice!

His joy! his last! O, the man gray

Loveth that ever-soft voice,

Gentle and low.

To the crimson woods he saith,

To the voice gentle and low

Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath,

"Pray do not mock me so!

Do not laugh at me!"

And now the sweet day is dead;

Cold in his arms it lies;

No stain from its breath is spread

Over the glassy skies,

No mist or stain!

Then, too, the Old Year dieth,

And the forests utter a moan,

Like the voice of one who crieth

In the wilderness alone,

"Vex not his ghost!"

Then comes, with an awful roar,

Gathering and sounding on,

The storm-wind from Labrador,

The wind Euroclydon,

The storm-wind!

Howl! howl! and from the forest

Sweep the red leaves away!

Would, the sins that thou abhorrest,

O Soul! could thus decay,

And be swept away!

For there shall come a mightier blast,

There shall be a darker day;

And the stars, from heaven down-cast

Like red leaves be swept away!

Kyrie, eleyson!

Christe, eleyson!

**********

EARLIER POEMS

AN APRIL DAY

When the warm sun, that brings

Seed-time and harvest, has returned again,

'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs

The first flower of the plain.

I love the season well,

When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,

Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell

The coming-on of storms.

From the earth's loosened mould

The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives;

Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold,

The drooping tree revives.

The softly-warbled song

Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored wings

Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along

The forest openings.

When the bright sunset fills

The silver woods with light, the green slope throws

Its shadows in the hollows of the hills,

And wide the upland glows.

And when the eve is born,

In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far,

Is hollowed out and the moon dips her horn,

And twinkles many a star.

Inverted in the tide

Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw,

And the fair trees look over, side by side,

And see themselves below.

Sweet April! many a thought

Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed;

Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought,

Life's golden fruit is shed.

AUTUMN

With what a glory comes and goes the year!

The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers

Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy

Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out;

And when the silver habit of the clouds

Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with

A sober gladness the old year takes up

His bright inheritance of golden fruits,

A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.

There is a beautiful spirit breathing now

Its mellow richness on the clustered trees,

And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,

Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,

And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds.

Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,

Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales

The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,

Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life

Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned,

And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,

Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down

By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees

The golden robin moves. The purple finch,

That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,

A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle,

And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud

From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings,

And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke,

Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.

O what a glory doth this world put on

For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth

Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks

On duties well performed, and days well spent!

For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves,

Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings.

He shall so hear the solemn hymn that Death

Has lifted up for all, that he shall go

To his long resting-place without a tear.

WOODS IN WINTER.

When winter winds are piercing chill,

And through the hawthorn blows the gale,

With solemn feet I tread the hill,

That overbrows the lonely vale.

O'er the bare upland, and away

Through the long reach of desert woods,

The embracing sunbeams chastely play,

And gladden these deep solitudes.

Where, twisted round the barren oak,

The summer vine in beauty clung,

And summer winds the stillness broke,

The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs

Pour out the river's gradual tide,

Shrilly the skater's iron rings,

And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene,

When birds sang out their mellow lay,

And winds were soft, and woods were green,

And the song ceased not with the day!

But still wild music is abroad,

Pale, desert woods! within your crowd;

And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,

Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear

Has grown familiar with your song;

I hear it in the opening year,

I listen, and it cheers me long.

HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM

AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER.

When the dying flame of day

Through the chancel shot its ray,

Far the glimmering tapers shed

Faint light on the cowled head;

And the censer burning swung,

Where, before the altar, hung

The crimson banner, that with prayer

Had been consecrated there.

And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while,

Sung low, in the dim, mysterious aisle.

"Take thy banner! May it wave

Proudly o'er the good and brave;

When the battle's distant wail

Breaks the sabbath of our vale.

When the clarion's music thrills

To the hearts of these lone hills,

When the spear in conflict shakes,

And the strong lance shivering breaks.

"Take thy banner! and, beneath

The battle-cloud's encircling wreath,

Guard it, till our homes are free!

Guard it! God will prosper thee!

In the dark and trying hour,

In the breaking forth of power,

In the rush of steeds and men,

His right hand will shield thee then.

"Take thy banner! But when night

Closes round the ghastly fight,

If the vanquished warrior bow,

Spare him! By our holy vow,

By our prayers and many tears,

By the mercy that endears,

Spare him! he our love hath shared!

Spare him! as thou wouldst be spared!

"Take thy banner! and if e'er

Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier,

And the muffled drum should beat

To the tread of mournful feet,

Then this crimson flag shall be

Martial cloak and shroud for thee."

The warrior took that banner proud,

And it was his martial cloak and shroud!

SUNRISE ON THE HILLS

I stood upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch

Was glorious with the sun's returning march,

And woods were brightened, and soft gales

Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales.

The clouds were far beneath me; bathed in light,

They gathered mid-way round the wooded height,

And, in their fading glory, shone

Like hosts in battle overthrown.

As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance.

Through the gray mist thrust up its shattered lance,

And rocking on the cliff was left

The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft.

The veil of cloud was lifted, and below

Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow

Was darkened by the forest's shade,

Or glistened in the white cascade;

Where upward, in the mellow blush of day,

The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way.

I heard the distant waters dash,

I saw the current whirl and flash,

And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach,

The woods were bending with a silent reach.

Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell,

The music of the village bell

Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills;

And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills,

Was ringing to the merry shout,

That faint and far the glen sent out,

Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke,

Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke.

If thou art worn and hard beset

With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget,

If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep

Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep,

Go to the woods and hills! No tears

Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.

THE SPIRIT OF POETRY

There is a quiet spirit in these woods,

That dwells where'er the gentle south-wind blows;

Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,

The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,

The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.

With what a tender and impassioned voice

It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,

When the fast ushering star of morning comes

O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf;

Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve,

In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,

Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves

In the green valley, where the silver brook,

From its full laver, pours the white cascade;

And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,

Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.

And frequent, on the everlasting hills,

Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself

In all the dark embroidery of the storm,

And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid

The silent majesty of these deep woods,

Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,

As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air

Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards

Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.

For them there was an eloquent voice in all

The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,

The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,

Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds,

The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun

Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes,

Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in,

Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale,

The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees,

In many a lazy syllable, repeating

Their old poetic legends to the wind.

And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill

The world; and, in these wayward days of youth,

My busy fancy oft embodies it,

As a bright image of the light and beauty

That dwell in nature; of the heavenly forms

We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues

That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds

When the sun sets. Within her tender eye

The heaven of April, with its changing light,

And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,

And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair

Is like the summer tresses of the trees,

When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek

Blushes the richness of an autumn sky,

With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,

It is so like the gentle air of Spring,

As, front the morning's dewy flowers, it comes

Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy

To have it round us, and her silver voice

Is the rich music of a summer bird,

Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.

BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK

On sunny slope and beechen swell,

The shadowed light of evening fell;

And, where the maple's leaf was brown,

With soft and silent lapse came down,

The glory, that the wood receives,

At sunset, in its golden leaves.

Far upward in the mellow light

Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white,

Around a far uplifted cone,

In the warm blush of evening shone;

An image of the silver lakes,

By which the Indian's soul awakes.

But soon a funeral hymn was heard

Where the soft breath of evening stirred

The tall, gray forest; and a band

Of stern in heart, and strong in hand,

Came winding down beside the wave,

To lay the red chief in his grave.

They sang, that by his native bowers

He stood, in the last moon of flowers,

And thirty snows had not yet shed

Their glory on the warrior's head;

But, as the summer fruit decays,

So died he in those naked days.

A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin

Covered the warrior, and within

Its heavy folds the weapons, made

For the hard toils of war, were laid;

The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds,

And the broad belt of shells and beads.

Before, a dark-haired virgin train

Chanted the death dirge of the slain;

Behind, the long procession came

Of hoary men and chiefs of fame,

With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief,

Leading the war-horse of their chief.

Stripped of his proud and martial dress,

Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless,

With darting eye, and nostril spread,

And heavy and impatient tread,

He came; and oft that eye so proud

Asked for his rider in the crowd.

They buried the dark chief; they freed

Beside the grave his battle steed;

And swift an arrow cleaved its way

To his stern heart! One piercing neigh

Arose, and, on the dead man's plain,

The rider grasps his steed again.

L' ENVOI

Ye voices, that arose

After the Evening's close,

And whispered to my restless heart repose!

Go, breathe it in the ear

Of all who doubt and fear,

And say to them, "Be of good cheer!"

Ye sounds, so low and calm,

That in the groves of balm

Seemed to me like an angel's psalm!

Go, mingle yet once more

With the perpetual roar

Of the pine forest dark and hoar!

Tongues of the dead, not lost

But speaking from deaths frost,

Like fiery tongues at Pentecost!

Glimmer, as funeral lamps,

Amid the chills and damps

Of the vast plain where Death encamps!

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

BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS

THE SKELETON IN ARMOR

"Speak! speak I thou fearful guest

Who, with thy hollow breast

Still in rude armor drest,

Comest to daunt me!

Wrapt not in Eastern balms,

Bat with thy fleshless palms

Stretched, as if asking alms,

Why dost thou haunt me?"

Then, from those cavernous eyes

Pale flashes seemed to rise,

As when the Northern skies

Gleam in December;

And, like the water's flow

Under December's snow,

Came a dull voice of woe

From the heart's chamber.

"I was a Viking old!

My deeds, though manifold,

No Skald in song has told,

No Saga taught thee!

Take heed, that in thy verse

Thou dost the tale rehearse,

Else dread a dead man's curse;

For this I sought thee.

"Far in the Northern Land,

By the wild Baltic's strand,

I, with my childish hand,

Tamed the gerfalcon;

And, with my skates fast-bound,

Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,

That the poor whimpering hound

Trembled to walk on.

"Oft to his frozen lair

Tracked I the grisly bear,

While from my path the hare

Fled like a shadow;

Oft through the forest dark

Followed the were-wolf's bark,

Until the soaring lark

Sang from the meadow.

"But when I older grew,

Joining a corsair's crew,

O'er the dark sea I flew

With the marauders.

Wild was the life we led;

Many the souls that sped,

Many the hearts that bled,

By our stern orders.

"Many a wassail-bout

Wore the long Winter out;

Often our midnight shout

Set the cocks crowing,

As we the Berserk's tale

Measured in cups of ale,

Draining the oaken pail,

Filled to o'erflowing.

"Once as I told in glee

Tales of the stormy sea,

Soft eyes did gaze on me,

Burning yet tender;

And as the white stars shine

On the dark Norway pine,

On that dark heart of mine

Fell their soft splendor.

"I wooed the blue-eyed maid,

Yielding, yet half afraid,

And in the forest's shade

Our vows were plighted.

Under its loosened vest

Fluttered her little breast

Like birds within their nest

By the hawk frighted.

"Bright in her father's hall

Shields gleamed upon the wall,

Loud sang the minstrels all,

Chanting his glory;

When of old Hildebrand

I asked his daughter's hand,

Mute did the minstrels stand

To hear my story.

"While the brown ale he quaffed,

Loud then the champion laughed,

And as the wind-gusts waft

The sea-foam brightly,

So the loud laugh of scorn,

Out of those lips unshorn,

From the deep drinking-horn

Blew the foam lightly.

"She was a Prince's child,

I but a Viking wild,

And though she blushed and smiled,

I was discarded!

Should not the dove so white

Follow the sea-mew's flight,

Why did they leave that night

Her nest unguarded?

"Scarce had I put to sea,

Bearing the maid with me,

Fairest of all was she

Among the Norsemen!

When on the white sea-strand,

Waving his armed hand,

Saw we old Hildebrand,

With twenty horsemen.

"Then launched they to the blast,

Bent like a reed each mast,

Yet we were gaining fast,

When the wind failed us;

And with a sudden flaw

Came round the gusty Skaw,

So that our foe we saw

Laugh as he hailed us.

"And as to catch the gale

Round veered the flapping sail,

Death I was the helmsman's hail,

Death without quarter!

Mid-ships with iron keel

Struck we her ribs of steel

Down her black hulk did reel

Through the black water!

"As with his wings aslant,

Sails the fierce cormorant,

Seeking some rocky haunt

With his prey laden,

So toward the open main,

Beating to sea again,

Through the wild hurricane,

Bore I the maiden.

"Three weeks we westward bore,

And when the storm was o'er,

Cloud-like we saw the shore

Stretching to leeward;

There for my lady's bower

Built I the lofty tower,

Which, to this very hour,

Stands looking seaward.

"There lived we many years;

Time dried the maiden's tears

She had forgot her fears,

She was a mother.

Death closed her mild blue eyes,

Under that tower she lies;

Ne'er shall the sun arise

On such another!

"Still grew my bosom then.

Still as a stagnant fen!

Hateful to me were men,

The sunlight hateful!

In the vast forest here,

Clad in my warlike gear,

Fell I upon my spear,

O, death was grateful!

"Thus, seamed with many scars,

Bursting these prison bars,

Up to its native stars

My soul ascended!

There from the flowing bowl

Deep drinks the warrior's soul,

Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!"

Thus the tale ended.

THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS

It was the schooner Hesperus,

That sailed the wintry sea;

And the skipper had taken his little daughter,

To bear him company.

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,

Her cheeks like the dawn of day,

And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,

That ope in the month of May.

The skipper he stood beside the helm,

His pipe was in his month,

And he watched how the veering flaw did blow

The smoke now West, now South.

Then up and spake an old Sailor,

Had sailed to the Spanish Main,

"I pray thee, put into yonder port,

For I fear a hurricane.

"Last night, the moon had a golden ring,

And to-night no moon we see!"

The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,

And a scornful laugh laughed he.

Colder and louder blew the wind,

A gale from the Northeast.

The snow fell hissing in the brine,

And the billows frothed like yeast.

Down came the storm, and smote amain

The vessel in its strength;

She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,

Then leaped her cable's length.

"Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,

And do not tremble so;

For I can weather the roughest gale

That ever wind did blow."

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat

Against the stinging blast;

He cut a rope from a broken spar,

And bound her to the mast.

"O father! I hear the church-bells ring,

O say, what may it be?"

"'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"--

And he steered for the open sea.

"O father! I hear the sound of guns,

O say, what may it be?"

"Some ship in distress, that cannot live

In such an angry sea!"

"O father! I see a gleaming light

O say, what may it be?"

But the father answered never a word,

A frozen corpse was he.

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,

With his face turned to the skies,

The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow

On his fixed and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed

That saved she might be;

And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,

On the Lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear,

Through the whistling sleet and snow,

Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept

Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.

And ever the fitful gusts between

A sound came from the land;

It was the sound of the trampling surf

On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her bows,

She drifted a dreary wreck,

And a whooping billow swept the crew

Like icicles from her deck.

She struck where the white and fleecy waves

Looked soft as carded wool,

But the cruel rocks, they gored her side

Like the horns of an angry bull.

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,

With the masts went by the board;

Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,

Ho! ho! the breakers roared!

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,

A fisherman stood aghast,

To see the form of a maiden fair,

Lashed close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her breast,

The salt tears in her eyes;

And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,

On the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,

In the midnight and the snow!

Christ save us all from a death like this,

On the reef of Norman's Woe!

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH

Under a spreading chestnut-tree

The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;

And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow;

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,

When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,

And bear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,

And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach,

He hears his daughter's voice,

Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,

Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,

How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes

A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes;

Each morning sees some task begin,

Each evening sees it close

Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught!

Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought;

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought.

ENDYMION

The rising moon has hid the stars;

Her level rays, like golden bars,

Lie on the landscape green,

With shadows brown between.

And silver white the river gleams,

As if Diana, in her dreams,

Had dropt her silver bow

Upon the meadows low.

On such a tranquil night as this,

She woke Endymion with a kiss,

When, sleeping in the grove,

He dreamed not of her love.

Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought,

Love gives itself, but is not bought;

Nor voice, nor sound betrays

Its deep, impassioned gaze.

It comes,--the beautiful, the free,

The crown of all humanity,--

In silence and alone

To seek the elected one.

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep

Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep,

And kisses the closed eyes

Of him, who slumbering lies.

O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes!

O drooping souls, whose destinies

Are fraught with fear and pain,

Ye shall be loved again!

No one is so accursed by fate,

No one so utterly desolate,

But some heart, though unknown,

Responds unto his own.

Responds,--as if with unseen wings,

An angel touched its quivering strings;

And whispers, in its song,

"'Where hast thou stayed so long?"

IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY

No hay pajaros en los nidos de antano.

Spanish Proverb

The sun is bright,--the air is clear,

The darting swallows soar and sing.

And from the stately elms I hear

The bluebird prophesying Spring.

So blue you winding river flows,

It seems an outlet from the sky,

Where waiting till the west-wind blows,

The freighted clouds at anchor lie.

All things are new;--the buds, the leaves,

That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest,

And even the nest beneath the eaves;--

There are no birds in last year's nest!

All things rejoice in youth and love,

The fulness of their first delight!

And learn from the soft heavens above

The melting tenderness of night.

Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme,

Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay;

Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,

For oh, it is not always May!

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth,

To some good angel leave the rest;

For Time will teach thee soon the truth,

There are no birds in last year's nest!

THE RAINY DAY

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary

It rains, and the wind is never weary;

The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,

But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;

It rains, and the wind is never weary;

My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,

But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,

And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;

Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;

Thy fate is the common fate of all,

Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.

GOD'S-ACRE.

I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls

The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;

It consecrates each grave within its walls,

And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts

Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown

The seed that they had garnered in their hearts,

Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

In the sure faith, that we shall rise again

At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast

Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,

In the fair gardens of that second birth;

And each bright blossom mingle its perfume

With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,

And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;

This is the field and Acre of our God,

This is the place where human harvests grow!

TO THE RIVER CHARLES.

River! that in silence windest

Through the meadows, bright and free,

Till at length thy rest thou findest

In the bosom of the sea!

Four long years of mingled feeling,

Half in rest, and half in strife,

I have seen thy waters stealing

Onward, like the stream of life.

Thou hast taught me, Silent River!

Many a lesson, deep and long;

Thou hast been a generous giver;

I can give thee but a song.

Oft in sadness and in illness,

I have watched thy current glide,

Till the beauty of its stillness

Overflowed me, like a tide.

And in better hours and brighter,

When I saw thy waters gleam,

I have felt my heart beat lighter,

And leap onward with thy stream.

Not for this alone I love thee,

Nor because thy waves of blue

From celestial seas above thee

Take their own celestial hue.

Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee,

And thy waters disappear,

Friends I love have dwelt beside thee,

And have made thy margin dear.

More than this;--thy name reminds me

Of three friends, all true and tried;

And that name, like magic, binds me

Closer, closer to thy side.

Friends my soul with joy remembers!

How like quivering flames they start,

When I fan the living embers

On the hearth-stone of my heart!

'T is for this, thou Silent River!

That my spirit leans to thee;

Thou hast been a generous giver,

Take this idle song from me.

BLIND BARTIMEUS

Blind Bartimeus at the gates

Of Jericho in darkness waits;

He hears the crowd;—he hears a breath

Say, “It is Christ of Nazareth!”

And calls, in tones of agony,

Ἰησοῦ, ἐλέησόν με!

The thronging multitudes increase;

Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace!

But still, above the noisy crowd,

The beggar’s cry is shrill and loud;

Until they say, “He calleth thee!”

Θάρσει ἔγειραι, φωνεῖ δε!

Then saith the Christ, as silent stands

The crowd, “What wilt thou at my hands?”

And he replies, “O give me light!

Rabbi, restore the blind man’s sight.”

And Jesus answers, Ὕπαγε

Ἡ πίστις σου σέσωκέ δε!

Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see,

In darkness and in misery,

Recall those mighty Voices Three,

Ἰησοῦ, ἐλέησόν με!

Θάρσει ἔγειραι, ὕπαγε!

Ἡ πίστις σου σέσωκέ δε!

THE GOBLET OF LIFE

Filled is Life's goblet to the brim;

And though my eyes with tears are dim,

I see its sparkling bubbles swim,

And chant a melancholy hymn

With solemn voice and slow.

No purple flowers,--no garlands green,

Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen,

Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene,

Like gleams of sunshine, flash between

Thick leaves of mistletoe.

This goblet, wrought with curious art,

Is filled with waters, that upstart,

When the deep fountains of the heart,

By strong convulsions rent apart,

Are running all to waste.

And as it mantling passes round,

With fennel is it wreathed and crowned,

Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned

Are in its waters steeped and drowned,

And give a bitter taste.

Above the lowly plants it towers,

The fennel, with its yellow flowers,

And in an earlier age than ours

Was gifted with the wondrous powers,

Lost vision to restore.

It gave new strength, and fearless mood;

And gladiators, fierce and rude,

Mingled it in their daily food;

And he who battled and subdued,

A wreath of fennel wore.

Then in Life's goblet freely press,

The leaves that give it bitterness,

Nor prize the colored waters less,

For in thy darkness and distress

New light and strength they give!

And he who has not learned to know

How false its sparkling bubbles show,

How bitter are the drops of woe,

With which its brim may overflow,

He has not learned to live.

The prayer of Ajax was for light;

Through all that dark and desperate fight

The blackness of that noonday night

He asked but the return of sight,

To see his foeman's face.

Let our unceasing, earnest prayer

Be, too, for light,--for strength to bear

Our portion of the weight of care,

That crushes into dumb despair

One half the human race.

O suffering, sad humanity!

O ye afflicted one; who lie

Steeped to the lips in misery,

Longing, and yet afraid to die,

Patient, though sorely tried!

I pledge you in this cup of grief,

Where floats the fennel's bitter leaf!

The Battle of our Life is brief

The alarm,--the struggle,--the relief,

Then sleep we side by side.

MAIDENHOOD

Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes,

In whose orbs a shadow lies

Like the dusk in evening skies!

Thou whose locks outshine the sun,

Golden tresses, wreathed in one,

As the braided streamlets run!

Standing, with reluctant feet,

Where the brook and river meet,

Womanhood and childhood fleet!

Gazing, with a timid glance,

On the brooklet's swift advance,

On the river's broad expanse!

Deep and still, that gliding stream

Beautiful to thee must seem,

As the river of a dream.

Then why pause with indecision,

When bright angels in thy vision

Beckon thee to fields Elysian?

Seest thou shadows sailing by,

As the dove, with startled eye,

Sees the falcon's shadow fly?

Hearest thou voices on the shore,

That our ears perceive no more,

Deafened by the cataract's roar?

O, thou child of many prayers!

Life hath quicksands,--Life hath snares

Care and age come unawares!

Like the swell of some sweet tune,

Morning rises into noon,

May glides onward into June.

Childhood is the bough, where slumbered

Birds and blossoms many-numbered;--

Age, that bough with snows encumbered.

Gather, then, each flower that grows,

When the young heart overflows,

To embalm that tent of snows.

Bear a lily in thy hand;

Gates of brass cannot withstand

One touch of that magic wand.

Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth,

In thy heart the dew of youth,

On thy lips the smile of truth!

O, that dew, like balm, shall steal

Into wounds that cannot heal,

Even as sleep our eyes doth seal;

And that smile, like sunshine, dart

Into many a sunless heart,

For a smile of God thou art.

EXCELSIOR

The shades of night were falling fast,

As through an Alpine village passed

A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,

A banner with the strange device,

Excelsior!

His brow was sad; his eye beneath,

Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,

And like a silver clarion rung

The accents of that unknown tongue,

Excelsior!

In happy homes he saw the light

Of household fires gleam warm and bright;

Above, the spectral glaciers shone,

And from his lips escaped a groan,

Excelsior!

"Try not the Pass!" the old man said:

"Dark lowers the tempest overhead,

The roaring torrent is deep and wide!

And loud that clarion voice replied,

Excelsior!

"Oh stay," the maiden said, "and rest

Thy weary head upon this breast!"

A tear stood in his bright blue eye,

But still he answered, with a sigh,

Excelsior!

"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch!

Beware the awful avalanche!"

This was the peasant's last Good-night,

A voice replied, far up the height,

Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenward

The pious monks of Saint Bernard

Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,

A voice cried through the startled air,

Excelsior!

A traveller, by the faithful hound,

Half-buried in the snow was found,

Still grasping in his hand of ice

That banner with the strange device,

Excelsior!

There in the twilight cold and gray,

Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,

And from the sky, serene and far,

A voice fell, like a falling star,

Excelsior!

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

POEMS ON SLAVERY.

[The following poems, with one exception, were written at sea,

in the latter part of October, 1842. I had not then heard of

Dr. Channing's death. Since that event, the poem addressed to

him is no longer appropriate. I have decided, however, to let

it remain as it was written, in testimony of my admiration for

a great and good man.]

TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING

The pages of thy book I read,

And as I closed each one,

My heart, responding, ever said,

"Servant of God! well done!"

Well done! Thy words are great and bold;

At times they seem to me,

Like Luther's, in the days of old,

Half-battles for the free.

Go on, until this land revokes

The old and chartered Lie,

The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes

Insult humanity.

A voice is ever at thy side

Speaking in tones of might,

Like the prophetic voice, that cried

To John in Patmos, "Write!"

Write! and tell out this bloody tale;

Record this dire eclipse,

This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail,

This dread Apocalypse!

THE SLAVE'S DREAM

Beside the ungathered rice he lay,

His sickle in his hand;

His breast was bare, his matted hair

Was buried in the sand.

Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,

He saw his Native Land.

Wide through the landscape of his dreams

The lordly Niger flowed;

Beneath the palm-trees on the plain

Once more a king he strode;

And heard the tinkling caravans

Descend the mountain-road.

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen

Among her children stand;

They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks,

They held him by the hand!--

A tear burst from the sleeper's lids

And fell into the sand.

And then at furious speed he rode

Along the Niger's bank;

His bridle-reins were golden chains,

And, with a martial clank,

At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel

Smiting his stallion's flank.

Before him, like a blood-red flag,

The bright flamingoes flew;

From morn till night he followed their flight,

O'er plains where the tamarind grew,

Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts,

And the ocean rose to view.

At night he heard the lion roar,

And the hyena scream,

And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds

Beside some hidden stream;

And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums,

Through the triumph of his dream.

The forests, with their myriad tongues,

Shouted of liberty;

And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud,

With a voice so wild and free,

That he started in his sleep and smiled

At their tempestuous glee.

He did not feel the driver's whip,

Nor the burning heat of day;

For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep,

And his lifeless body lay

A worn-out fetter, that the soul

Had broken and thrown away!

THE GOOD PART

THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY

She dwells by Great Kenhawa's side,

In valleys green and cool;

And all her hope and all her pride

Are in the village school.

Her soul, like the transparent air

That robes the hills above,

Though not of earth, encircles there

All things with arms of love.

And thus she walks among her girls

With praise and mild rebukes;

Subduing e'en rude village churls

By her angelic looks.

She reads to them at eventide

Of One who came to save;

To cast the captive's chains aside

And liberate the slave.

And oft the blessed time foretells

When all men shall be free;

And musical, as silver bells,

Their falling chains shall be.

And following her beloved Lord,

In decent poverty,

She makes her life one sweet record

And deed of charity.

For she was rich, and gave up all

To break the iron bands

Of those who waited in her hall,

And labored in her lands.

Long since beyond the Southern Sea

Their outbound sails have sped,

While she, in meek humility,

Now earns her daily bread.

It is their prayers, which never cease,

That clothe her with such grace;

Their blessing is the light of peace

That shines upon her face.

THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP

In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp

The hunted Negro lay;

He saw the fire of the midnight camp,

And heard at times a horse's tramp

And a bloodhound's distant bay.

Where will-o'-the-wisps and glow-worms shine,

In bulrush and in brake;

Where waving mosses shroud the pine,

And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine

Is spotted like the snake;

Where hardly a human foot could pass,

Or a human heart would dare,

On the quaking turf of the green morass

He crouched in the rank and tangled grass,

Like a wild beast in his lair.

A poor old slave, infirm and lame;

Great scars deformed his face;

On his forehead he bore the brand of shame,

And the rags, that hid his mangled frame,

Were the livery of disgrace.

All things above were bright and fair,

All things were glad and free;

Lithe squirrels darted here and there,

And wild birds filled the echoing air

With songs of Liberty!

On him alone was the doom of pain,

From the morning of his birth;

On him alone the curse of Cain

Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain,

And struck him to the earth!

THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT

Loud he sang the psalm of David!

He, a Negro and enslaved,

Sang of Israel's victory,

Sang of Zion, bright and free.

In that hour, when night is calmest,

Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist,

In a voice so sweet and clear

That I could not choose but hear,

Songs of triumph, and ascriptions,

Such as reached the swart Egyptians,

When upon the Red Sea coast

Perished Pharaoh and his host.

And the voice of his devotion

Filled my soul with strange emotion;

For its tones by turns were glad,

Sweetly solemn, wildly sad.

Paul and Silas, in their prison,

Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen,

And an earthquake's arm of might

Broke their dungeon-gates at night.

But, alas! what holy angel

Brings the Slave this glad evangel?

And what earthquake's arm of might

Breaks his dungeon-gates at night?

THE WITNESSES

In Ocean's wide domains,

Half buried in the sands,

Lie skeletons in chains,

With shackled feet and hands.

Beyond the fall of dews,

Deeper than plummet lies,

Float ships, with all their crews,

No more to sink nor rise.

There the black Slave-ship swims,

Freighted with human forms,

Whose fettered, fleshless limbs

Are not the sport of storms.

These are the bones of Slaves;

They gleam from the abyss;

They cry, from yawning waves,

"We are the Witnesses!"

Within Earth's wide domains

Are markets for men's lives;

Their necks are galled with chains,

Their wrists are cramped with gyves.

Dead bodies, that the kite

In deserts makes its prey;

Murders, that with affright

Scare school-boys from their play!

All evil thoughts and deeds;

Anger, and lust, and pride;

The foulest, rankest weeds,

That choke Life's groaning tide!

These are the woes of Slaves;

They glare from the abyss;

They cry, from unknown graves,

"We are the Witnesses!

THE QUADROON GIRL

The Slaver in the broad lagoon

Lay moored with idle sail;

He waited for the rising moon,

And for the evening gale.

Under the shore his boat was tied,

And all her listless crew

Watched the gray alligator slide

Into the still bayou.

Odors of orange-flowers, and spice,

Reached them from time to time,

Like airs that breathe from Paradise

Upon a world of crime.

The Planter, under his roof of thatch,

Smoked thoughtfully and slow;

The Slaver's thumb was on the latch,

He seemed in haste to go.

He said, "My ship at anchor rides

In yonder broad lagoon;

I only wait the evening tides,

And the rising of the moon.

Before them, with her face upraised,

In timid attitude,

Like one half curious, half amazed,

A Quadroon maiden stood.

Her eyes were large, and full of light,

Her arms and neck were bare;

No garment she wore save a kirtle bright,

And her own long, raven hair.

And on her lips there played a smile

As holy, meek, and faint,

As lights in some cathedral aisle

The features of a saint.

"The soil is barren,--the farm is old";

The thoughtful planter said;

Then looked upon the Slaver's gold,

And then upon the maid.

His heart within him was at strife

With such accursed gains:

For he knew whose passions gave her life,

Whose blood ran in her veins.

But the voice of nature was too weak;

He took the glittering gold!

Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek,

Her hands as icy cold.

The Slaver led her from the door,

He led her by the hand,

To be his slave and paramour

In a strange and distant land!

THE WARNING

Beware! The Israelite of old, who tore

The lion in his path,--when, poor and blind,

He saw the blessed light of heaven no more,

Shorn of his noble strength and forced to grind

In prison, and at last led forth to be

A pander to Philistine revelry,--

Upon the pillars of the temple laid

His desperate hands, and in its overthrow

Destroyed himself, and with him those who made

A cruel mockery of his sightless woe;

The poor, blind Slave, the scoff and jest of all,

Expired, and thousands perished in the fall!

There is a poor, blind Samson in this land,

Shorn of his strength and bound in bonds of steel,

Who may, in some grim revel, raise his hand,

And shake the pillars of this Commonweal,

Till the vast Temple of our liberties.

A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies.

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

THE SPANISH STUDENT

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

VICTORIAN

HYPOLITO Students of Alcala.

THE COUNT OF LARA

DON CARLOS Gentlemen of Madrid.

THE ARCHBISHOP OF TOLEDO.

A CARDINAL.

BELTRAN CRUZADO Count of the Gypsies.

BARTOLOME ROMAN A young Gypsy.

THE PADRE CURA OF GUADARRAMA.

PEDRO CRESPO Alcalde.

PANCHO Alguacil.

FRANCISCO Lara's Servant.

CHISPA Victorian's Servant.

BALTASAR Innkeeper.

PRECIOSA A Gypsy Girl.

ANGELICA A poor Girl.

MARTINA The Padre Cura's Niece.

DOLORES Preciosa's Maid.

Gypsies, Musicians, etc.

ACT I.

SCENE I.--The COUNT OF LARA'S chambers. Night. The COUNT in his

dressing-gown, smoking and conversing with DON CARLOS.

Lara. You were not at the play tonight, Don Carlos;

How happened it?

Don C. I had engagements elsewhere.

Pray who was there?

Lara. Why all the town and court.

The house was crowded; and the busy fans

Among the gayly dressed and perfumed ladies

Fluttered like butterflies among the flowers.

There was the Countess of Medina Celi;

The Goblin Lady with her Phantom Lover,

Her Lindo Don Diego; Dona Sol,

And Dona Serafina, and her cousins.

Don C. What was the play?

Lara. It was a dull affair;

One of those comedies in which you see,

As Lope says, the history of the world

Brought down from Genesis to the Day of Judgment.

There were three duels fought in the first act,

Three gentlemen receiving deadly wounds,

Laying their hands upon their hearts, and saying,

"O, I am dead!" a lover in a closet,

An old hidalgo, and a gay Don Juan,

A Dona Inez with a black mantilla,

Followed at twilight by an unknown lover,

Who looks intently where he knows she is not!

Don C. Of course, the Preciosa danced to-night?

Lara. And never better. Every footstep fell

As lightly as a sunbeam on the water.

I think the girl extremely beautiful.

Don C. Almost beyond the privilege of woman!

I saw her in the Prado yesterday.

Her step was royal,--queen-like,--and her face

As beautiful as a saint's in Paradise.

Lara. May not a saint fall from her Paradise,

And be no more a saint?

Don C. Why do you ask?

Lara. Because I have heard it said this angel fell,

And though she is a virgin outwardly,

Within she is a sinner; like those panels

Of doors and altar-pieces the old monks

Painted in convents, with the Virgin Mary

On the outside, and on the inside Venus!

Don C. You do her wrong; indeed, you do her wrong!

She is as virtuous as she is fair.

Lara. How credulous you are! Why look you, friend,

There's not a virtuous woman in Madrid,

In this whole city! And would you persuade me

That a mere dancing-girl, who shows herself,

Nightly, half naked, on the stage, for money,

And with voluptuous motions fires the blood

Of inconsiderate youth, is to be held

A model for her virtue?

Don C. You forget

She is a Gypsy girl.

Lara. And therefore won

The easier.

Don C. Nay, not to be won at all!

The only virtue that a Gypsy prizes

Is chastity. That is her only virtue.

Dearer than life she holds it. I remember

A Gypsy woman, a vile, shameless bawd,

Whose craft was to betray the young and fair;

And yet this woman was above all bribes.

And when a noble lord, touched by her beauty,

The wild and wizard beauty of her race,

Offered her gold to be what she made others,

She turned upon him, with a look of scorn,

And smote him in the face!

Lara. And does that prove

That Preciosa is above suspicion?

Don C. It proves a nobleman may be repulsed

When he thinks conquest easy. I believe

That woman, in her deepest degradation,

Holds something sacred, something undefiled,

Some pledge and keepsake of her higher nature,

And, like the diamond in the dark, retains

Some quenchless gleam of the celestial light!

Lara. Yet Preciosa would have taken the gold.

Don C. (rising). I do not think so.

Lara. I am sure of it.

But why this haste? Stay yet a little longer,

And fight the battles of your Dulcinea.

Don C. 'T is late. I must begone, for if I stay

You will not be persuaded.

Lara. Yes; persuade me.

Don C. No one so deaf as he who will not hear!

Lara. No one so blind as he who will not see!

Don C. And so good night. I wish you pleasant dreams,

And greater faith in woman. [Exit.

Lara. Greater faith!

I have the greatest faith; for I believe

Victorian is her lover. I believe

That I shall be to-morrow; and thereafter

Another, and another, and another,

Chasing each other through her zodiac,

As Taurus chases Aries.

(Enter FRANCISCO with a casket.)

Well, Francisco,

What speed with Preciosa?

Fran. None, my lord.

She sends your jewels back, and bids me tell you

She is not to be purchased by your gold.

Lara. Then I will try some other way to win her.

Pray, dost thou know Victorian?

Fran. Yes, my lord;

I saw him at the jeweller's to-day.

Lara. What was he doing there?

Fran. I saw him buy

A golden ring, that had a ruby in it.

Lara. Was there another like it?

Fran. One so like it

I could not choose between them.

Lara. It is well.

To-morrow morning bring that ring to me.

Do not forget. Now light me to my bed.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II. -- A street in Madrid. Enter CHISPA, followed by

musicians, with a bagpipe, guitars, and other instruments.

Chispa. Abernuncio Satanas! and a plague on all lovers who

ramble about at night, drinking the elements, instead of

sleeping quietly in their beds. Every dead man to his cemetery,

say I; and every friar to his monastery. Now, here's my master,

Victorian, yesterday a cow-keeper, and to-day a gentleman;

yesterday a student, and to-day a lover; and I must be up later

than the nightingale, for as the abbot sings so must the

sacristan respond. God grant he may soon be married, for then

shall all this serenading cease. Ay, marry! marry! marry!

Mother, what does marry mean? It means to spin, to bear

children, and to weep, my daughter! And, of a truth, there is

something more in matrimony than the wedding-ring. (To the

musicians.) And now, gentlemen, Pax vobiscum! as the ass said to

the cabbages. Pray, walk this way; and don't hang down your

heads. It is no disgrace to have an old father and a ragged

shirt. Now, look you, you are gentlemen who lead the life of

crickets; you enjoy hunger by day and noise by night. Yet, I

beseech you, for this once be not loud, but pathetic; for it is a

serenade to a damsel in bed, and not to the Man in the Moon.

Your object is not to arouse and terrify, but to soothe and bring

lulling dreams. Therefore, each shall not play upon his

instrument as if it were the only one in the universe, but

gently, and with a certain modesty, according with the others.

Pray, how may I call thy name, friend?

First Mus. Geronimo Gil, at your service.

Chispa. Every tub smells of the wine that is in it. Pray,

Geronimo, is not Saturday an unpleasant day with thee?

First Mus. Why so?

Chispa. Because I have heard it said that Saturday is an

unpleasant day with those who have but one shirt. Moreover, I

have seen thee at the tavern, and if thou canst run as fast as

thou canst drink, I should like to hunt hares with thee. What

instrument is that?

First Mus. An Aragonese bagpipe.

Chispa. Pray, art thou related to the bagpiper of Bujalance,

who asked a maravedi for playing, and ten for leaving off?

First Mus. No, your honor.

Chispa. I am glad of it. What other instruments have we?

Second and Third Musicians. We play the bandurria.

Chispa. A pleasing instrument. And thou?

Fourth Mus. The fife.

Chispa. I like it; it has a cheerful, soul-stirring sound,

that soars up to my lady's window like the song of a swallow.

And you others?

Other Mus. We are the singers, please your honor.

Chispa. You are too many. Do you think we are going to sing

mass in the cathedral of Cordova? Four men can make but little

use of one shoe, and I see not how you can all sing in one song.

But follow me along the garden wall. That is the way my master

climbs to the lady's window, it is by the Vicar's skirts that the

Devil climbs into the belfry. Come, follow me, and make no

noise.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III. -- PRECIOSA'S chamber. She stands at the open window.

Prec. How slowly through the lilac-scented air

Descends the tranquil moon! Like thistle-down

The vapory clouds float in the peaceful sky;

And sweetly from yon hollow vaults of shade

The nightingales breathe out their souls in song.

And hark! what songs of love, what soul-like sounds,

Answer them from below!

SERENADE.

Stars of the summer night!

Far in yon azure deeps,

Hide, hide your golden light!

She sleeps!

My lady sleeps!

Sleeps!

Moon of the summer night!

Far down yon western steeps,

Sink, sink in silver light!

She sleeps!

My lady sleeps!

Sleeps!

Wind of the summer night!

Where yonder woodbine creeps,

Fold, fold thy pinions light!

She sleeps!

My lady sleeps!

Sleeps!

Dreams of the summer night!

Tell her, her lover keeps

Watch! while in slumbers light

She sleeps

My lady sleeps

Sleeps!

(Enter VICTORIAN by the balcony.)

Vict. Poor little dove! Thou tremblest like a leaf!

Prec. I am so frightened! 'T is for thee I tremble!

I hate to have thee climb that wall by night!

Did no one see thee?

Vict. None, my love, but thou.

Prec. 'T is very dangerous; and when thou art gone

I chide myself for letting thee come here

Thus stealthily by night. Where hast thou been?

Since yesterday I have no news from thee.

Vict. Since yesterday I have been in Alcala.

Erelong the time will come, sweet Preciosa,

When that dull distance shall no more divide us;

And I no more shall scale thy wall by night

To steal a kiss from thee, as I do now.

Prec. An honest thief, to steal but what thou givest.

Vict. And we shall sit together unmolested,

And words of true love pass from tongue to tongue,

As singing birds from one bough to another.

Prec. That were a life to make time envious!

I knew that thou wouldst come to me to-night.

I saw thee at the play.

Vict. Sweet child of air!

Never did I behold thee so attired

And garmented in beauty as to-night!

What hast thou done to make thee look so fair?

Prec. Am I not always fair?

Vict. Ay, and so fair

That I am jealous of all eyes that see thee,

And wish that they were blind.

Prec. I heed them not;

When thou art present, I see none but thee!

Vict. There's nothing fair nor beautiful, but takes

Something from thee, that makes it beautiful.

Prec. And yet thou leavest me for those dusty books.

Vict. Thou comest between me and those books too often!

I see thy face in everything I see!

The paintings in the chapel wear thy looks,

The canticles are changed to sarabands,

And with the leaned doctors of the schools

I see thee dance cachuchas.

Prec. In good sooth,

I dance with learned doctors of the schools

To-morrow morning.

Vict. And with whom, I pray?

Prec. A grave and reverend Cardinal, and his Grace

The Archbishop of Toledo.

Vict. What mad jest

Is this?

Prec. It is no jest; indeed it is not.

Vict. Prithee, explain thyself.

Prec. Why, simply thus.

Thou knowest the Pope has sent here into Spain

To put a stop to dances on the stage.

Vict. I have heard it whispered.

Prec. Now the Cardinal,

Who for this purpose comes, would fain behold

With his own eyes these dances; and the Archbishop

Has sent for me--

Vict. That thou mayst dance before them!

Now viva la cachucha! It will breathe

The fire of youth into these gray old men!

'T will be thy proudest conquest!

Prec. Saving one.

And yet I fear these dances will be stopped,

And Preciosa be once more a beggar.

Vict. The sweetest beggar that e'er asked for alms;

With such beseeching eyes, that when I saw thee

I gave my heart away!

Prec. Dost thou remember

When first we met?

Vict. It was at Cordova,

In the cathedral garden. Thou wast sitting

Under the orange-trees, beside a fountain.

Prec. 'T was Easter-Sunday. The full-blossomed trees

Filled all the air with fragrance and with joy.

The priests were singing, and the organ sounded,

And then anon the great cathedral bell.

It was the elevation of the Host.

We both of us fell down upon our knees,

Under the orange boughs, and prayed together.

I never had been happy till that moment.

Vict. Thou blessed angel!

Prec. And when thou wast gone

I felt an acting here. I did not speak

To any one that day. But from that day

Bartolome grew hateful unto me.

Vict. Remember him no more. Let not his shadow

Come between thee and me. Sweet Preciosa!

I loved thee even then, though I was silent!

Prec. I thought I ne'er should see thy face again.

Thy farewell had a sound of sorrow in it.

Vict. That was the first sound in the song of love!

Scarce more than silence is, and yet a sound.

Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings

Of that mysterious instrument, the soul,

And play the prelude of our fate. We hear

The voice prophetic, and are not alone.

Prec. That is my faith. Dust thou believe these warnings?

Vict. So far as this. Our feelings and our thoughts

Tend ever on, and rest not in the Present.

As drops of rain fall into some dark well,

And from below comes a scarce audible sound,

So fall our thoughts into the dark Hereafter,

And their mysterious echo reaches us.

Prec. I have felt it so, but found no words to say it!

I cannot reason; I can only feel!

But thou hast language for all thoughts and feelings.

Thou art a scholar; and sometimes I think

We cannot walk together in this world!

The distance that divides us is too great!

Henceforth thy pathway lies among the stars;

I must not hold thee back.

Vict. Thou little sceptic!

Dost thou still doubt? What I most prize in woman

Is her affections, not her intellect!

The intellect is finite; but the affections

Are infinite, and cannot be exhausted.

Compare me with the great men of the earth;

What am I? Why, a pygmy among giants!

But if thou lovest,--mark me! I say lovest,

The greatest of thy sex excels thee not!

The world of the affections is thy world,

Not that of man's ambition. In that stillness

Which most becomes a woman, calm and holy,

Thou sittest by the fireside of the heart,

Feeding its flame. The element of fire

Is pure. It cannot change nor hide its nature,

But burns as brightly in a Gypsy camp

As in a palace hall. Art thou convinced?

Prec. Yes, that I love thee, as the good love heaven;

But not that I am worthy of that heaven.

How shall I more deserve it?

Vict. Loving more.

Prec. I cannot love thee more; my heart is full.

Vict. Then let it overflow, and I will drink it,

As in the summer-time the thirsty sands

Drink the swift waters of the Manzanares,

And still do thirst for more.

A Watchman (in the street). Ave Maria

Purissima! 'T is midnight and serene!

Vict. Hear'st thou that cry?

Prec. It is a hateful sound,

To scare thee from me!

Vict. As the hunter's horn

Doth scare the timid stag, or bark of hounds

The moor-fowl from his mate.

Prec. Pray, do not go!

Vict. I must away to Alcala to-night.

Think of me when I am away.

Prec. Fear not!

I have no thoughts that do not think of thee.

Vict. (giving her a ring).

And to remind thee of my love, take this;

A serpent, emblem of Eternity;

A ruby,--say, a drop of my heart's blood.

Prec. It is an ancient saying, that the ruby

Brings gladness to the wearer, and preserves

The heart pure, and, if laid beneath the pillow,

Drives away evil dreams. But then, alas!

It was a serpent tempted Eve to sin.

Vict. What convent of barefooted Carmelites

Taught thee so much theology?

Prec. (laying her hand upon his mouth). Hush! hush!

Good night! and may all holy angels guard thee!

Vict. Good night! good night! Thou art my guardian angel!

I have no other saint than thou to pray to!

(He descends by the balcony.)

Prec. Take care, and do not hurt thee. Art thou safe?

Vict. (from the garden).

Safe as my love for thee! But art thou safe?

Others can climb a balcony by moonlight

As well as I. Pray shut thy window close;

I am jealous of the perfumed air of night

That from this garden climbs to kiss thy lips.

Prec. (throwing down her handkerchief).

Thou silly child! Take this to blind thine eyes.

It is my benison!

Vict. And brings to me

Sweet fragrance from thy lips, as the soft wind

Wafts to the out-bound mariner the breath

Of the beloved land he leaves behind.

Prec. Make not thy voyage long.

Vict. To-morrow night

Shall see me safe returned. Thou art the star

To guide me to an anchorage. Good night!

My beauteous star! My star of love, good night!

Prec. Good night!

Watchman (at a distance). Ave Maria Purissima!

Scene IV. -- An inn on the road to Alcala.

BALTASAR asleep on a bench. Enter CHISPA.

Chispa. And here we are, halfway to Alcala, between cocks and

midnight. Body o' me! what an inn this is! The lights out, and

the landlord asleep. Hola! ancient Baltasar!

Bal. (waking). Here I am.

Chispa. Yes, there you are, like a one-eyed Alcalde in a town

without inhabitants. Bring a light, and let me have supper.

Bal. Where is your master?

Chispo. Do not trouble yourself about him. We have stopped a

moment to breathe our horses; and, if he chooses to walk up and

down in the open air, looking into the sky as one who hears it

rain, that does not satisfy my hunger, you know. But be quick,

for I am in a hurry, and every man stretches his legs according

to the length of his coverlet. What have we here?

Bal. (setting a light on the table). Stewed rabbit.

Chispa (eating). Conscience of Portalegre! Stewed kitten, you

mean!

Bal. And a pitcher of Pedro Ximenes, with a roasted pear in

it.

Chispa (drinking). Ancient Baltasar, amigo! You know how to

cry wine and sell vinegar. I tell you this is nothing but Vino

Tinto of La Mancha, with a tang of the swine-skin.

Bal. I swear to you by Saint Simon and Judas, it is all as I

say.

Chispa. And I swear to you by Saint Peter and Saint Paul, that

it is no such thing. Moreover, your supper is like the hidalgo's

dinner, very little meat and a great deal of tablecloth.

Bal. Ha! ha! ha!

Chispa. And more noise than nuts.

Bal. Ha! ha! ha! You must have your joke, Master Chispa. But

shall I not ask Don Victorian in, to take a draught of the Pedro

Ximenes?

Chispa. No; you might as well say, "Don't-you-want-some?" to a

dead man.

Bal. Why does he go so often to Madrid?

Chispa. For the same reason that he eats no supper. He is in

love. Were you ever in love, Baltasar?

Bal. I was never out of it, good Chispa. It has been the

torment of my life.

Chispa. What! are you on fire, too, old hay-stack? Why, we

shall never be able to put you out.

Vict. (without). Chispa!

Chispa. Go to bed, Pero Grullo, for the cocks are crowing.

Vict. Ea! Chispa! Chispa!

Chispa. Ea! Senor. Come with me, ancient Baltasar, and bring

water for the horses. I will pay for the supper tomorrow.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V. -- VICTORIAN'S chambers at Alcala. HYPOLITO asleep in

an arm-chair. He awakes slowly.

Hyp. I must have been asleep! ay, sound asleep!

And it was all a dream. O sleep, sweet sleep

Whatever form thou takest, thou art fair,

Holding unto our lips thy goblet filled

Out of Oblivion's well, a healing draught!

The candles have burned low; it must be late.

Where can Victorian be? Like Fray Carrillo,

The only place in which one cannot find him

Is his own cell. Here's his guitar, that seldom

Feels the caresses of its master's hand.

Open thy silent lips, sweet instrument!

And make dull midnight merry with a song.

(He plays and sings.)

Padre Francisco!

Padre Francisco!

What do you want of Padre Francisco?

Here is a pretty young maiden

Who wants to confess her sins!

Open the door and let her come in,

I will shrive her from every sin.

(Enter VICTORIAN.)

Vict. Padre Hypolito! Padre Hypolito!

Hyp. What do you want of Padre Hypolito?

Vict. Come, shrive me straight; for, if love be a sin,

I am the greatest sinner that doth live.

I will confess the sweetest of all crimes,

A maiden wooed and won.

Hyp. The same old tale

Of the old woman in the chimney-corner,

Who, while the pot boils, says, "Come here, my child;

I'll tell thee a story of my wedding-day."

Vict. Nay, listen, for my heart is full; so full

That I must speak.

Hyp. Alas! that heart of thine

Is like a scene in the old play; the curtain

Rises to solemn music, and lo! enter

The eleven thousand virgins of Cologne!

Vict. Nay, like the Sibyl's volumes, thou shouldst say;

Those that remained, after the six were burned,

Being held more precious than the nine together.

But listen to my tale. Dost thou remember

The Gypsy girl we saw at Cordova

Dance the Romalis in the market-place?

Hyp. Thou meanest Preciosa.

Vict. Ay, the same.

Thou knowest how her image haunted me

Long after we returned to Alcala.

She's in Madrid.

Hyp. I know it.

Vict. And I'm in love.

Hyp. And therefore in Madrid when thou shouldst be

In Alcala.

Vict. O pardon me, my friend,

If I so long have kept this secret from thee;

But silence is the charm that guards such treasures,

And, if a word be spoken ere the time,

They sink again, they were not meant for us.

Hyp. Alas! alas! I see thou art in love.

Love keeps the cold out better than a cloak.

It serves for food and raiment. Give a Spaniard

His mass, his olla, and his Dona Luisa--

Thou knowest the proverb. But pray tell me, lover,

How speeds thy wooing? Is the maiden coy?

Write her a song, beginning with an Ave;

Sing as the monk sang to the Virgin Mary,

Ave! cujus calcem clare

Nec centenni commendare

Sciret Seraph studio!

Vict. Pray, do not jest! This is no time for it!

I am in earnest!

Hyp. Seriously enamored?

What, ho! The Primus of great Alcala

Enamored of a Gypsy? Tell me frankly,

How meanest thou?

Vict. I mean it honestly.

Hyp. Surely thou wilt not marry her!

Vict. Why not?

Hyp. She was betrothed to one Bartolome,

If I remember rightly, a young Gypsy

Who danced with her at Cordova.

Vict. They quarrelled,

And so the matter ended.

Hyp. But in truth

Thou wilt not marry her.

Vict. In truth I will.

The angels sang in heaven when she was born!

She is a precious jewel I have found

Among the filth and rubbish of the world.

I'll stoop for it; but when I wear it here,

Set on my forehead like the morning star,

The world may wonder, but it will not laugh.

Hyp. If thou wear'st nothing else upon thy forehead,

'T will be indeed a wonder.

Vict. Out upon thee

With thy unseasonable jests! Pray tell me,

Is there no virtue in the world?

Hyp. Not much.

What, think'st thou, is she doing at this moment;

Now, while we speak of her?

Vict. She lies asleep,

And from her parted lips her gentle breath

Comes like the fragrance from the lips of flowers.

Her tender limbs are still, and on her breast

The cross she prayed to, ere she fell asleep,

Rises and falls with the soft tide of dreams,

Like a light barge safe moored.

Hyp. Which means, in prose,

She's sleeping with her mouth a little open!

Vict. O, would I had the old magician's glass

To see her as she lies in childlike sleep!

Hyp. And wouldst thou venture?

Vict. Ay, indeed I would!

Hyp. Thou art courageous. Hast thou e'er reflected

How much lies hidden in that one word, NOW?

Vict. Yes; all the awful mystery of Life!

I oft have thought, my dear Hypolito,

That could we, by some spell of magic, change

The world and its inhabitants to stone,

In the same attitudes they now are in,

What fearful glances downward might we cast

Into the hollow chasms of human life!

What groups should we behold about the death-bed,

Putting to shame the group of Niobe!

What joyful welcomes, and what sad farewells!

What stony tears in those congealed eyes!

What visible joy or anguish in those cheeks!

What bridal pomps, and what funereal shows!

What foes, like gladiators, fierce and struggling!

What lovers with their marble lips together!

Hyp. Ay, there it is! and, if I were in love,

That is the very point I most should dread.

This magic glass, these magic spells of thine,

Might tell a tale were better left untold.

For instance, they might show us thy fair cousin,

The Lady Violante, bathed in tears

Of love and anger, like the maid of Colchis,

Whom thou, another faithless Argonaut,

Having won that golden fleece, a woman's love,

Desertest for this Glauce.

Vict. Hold thy peace!

She cares not for me. She may wed another,

Or go into a convent, and, thus dying,

Marry Achilles in the Elysian Fields.

Hyp. (rising). And so, good night! Good morning, I should say.

(Clock strikes three.)

Hark! how the loud and ponderous mace of Time

Knocks at the golden portals of the day!

And so, once more, good night! We'll speak more largely

Of Preciosa when we meet again.

Get thee to bed, and the magician, Sleep,

Shall show her to thee, in his magic glass,

In all her loveliness. Good night!

[Exit.

Vict. Good night!

But not to bed; for I must read awhile.

(Throws himself into the arm-chair which HYPOLITO has left, and

lays a large book open upon his knees.)

Must read, or sit in revery and watch

The changing color of the waves that break

Upon the idle sea-shore of the mind!

Visions of Fame! that once did visit me,

Making night glorious with your smile, where are ye?

O, who shall give me, now that ye are gone,

Juices of those immortal plants that bloom

Upon Olympus, making us immortal?

Or teach me where that wondrous mandrake grows

Whose magic root, torn from the earth with groans,

At midnight hour, can scare the fiends away,

And make the mind prolific in its fancies!

I have the wish, but want the will, to act!

Souls of great men departed! Ye whose words

Have come to light from the swift river of Time,

Like Roman swords found in the Tagus' bed,

Where is the strength to wield the arms ye bore?

From the barred visor of Antiquity

Reflected shines the eternal light of Truth,

As from a mirror! All the means of action--

The shapeless masses, the materials--

Lie everywhere about us. What we need

Is the celestial fire to change the flint

Into transparent crystal, bright and clear.

That fire is genius! The rude peasant sits

At evening in his smoky cot, and draws

With charcoal uncouth figures on the wall.

The son of genius comes, foot-sore with travel,

And begs a shelter from the inclement night.

He takes the charcoal from the peasant's hand,

And, by the magic of his touch at once

Transfigured, all its hidden virtues shine,

And, in the eyes of the astonished clown,

It gleams a diamond! Even thus transformed,

Rude popular traditions and old tales

Shine as immortal poems, at the touch

Of some poor, houseless, homeless, wandering bard,

Who had but a night's lodging for his pains.

But there are brighter dreams than those of Fame,

Which are the dreams of Love! Out of the heart

Rises the bright ideal of these dreams,

As from some woodland fount a spirit rises

And sinks again into its silent deeps,

Ere the enamored knight can touch her robe!

'T is this ideal that the soul of man,

Like the enamored knight beside the fountain,

Waits for upon the margin of Life's stream;

Waits to behold her rise from the dark waters,

Clad in a mortal shape! Alas! how many

Must wait in vain! The stream flows evermore,

But from its silent deeps no spirit rises!

Yet I, born under a propitious star,

Have found the bright ideal of my dreams.

Yes! she is ever with me. I can feel,

Here, as I sit at midnight and alone,

Her gentle breathing! on my breast can feel

The pressure of her head! God's benison

Rest ever on it! Close those beauteous eyes,

Sweet Sleep! and all the flowers that bloom at night

With balmy lips breathe in her ears my name!

(Gradually sinks asleep.)

ACT II.

SCENE I. -- PRECIOSA'S chamber. Morning. PRECIOSA and ANGELICA.

Prec. Why will you go so soon? Stay yet awhile.

The poor too often turn away unheard

From hearts that shut against them with a sound

That will be heard in heaven. Pray, tell me more

Of your adversities. Keep nothing from me.

What is your landlord's name?

Ang. The Count of Lara.

Prec. The Count of Lara? O, beware that man!

Mistrust his pity,--hold no parley with him!

And rather die an outcast in the streets

Than touch his gold.

Ang. You know him, then!

Prec. As much

As any woman may, and yet be pure.

As you would keep your name without a blemish,

Beware of him!

Ang. Alas! what can I do?

I cannot choose my friends. Each word of kindness,

Come whence it may, is welcome to the poor.

Prec. Make me your friend. A girl so young and fair

Should have no friends but those of her own sex.

What is your name?

Ang. Angelica.

Prec. That name

Was given you, that you might be an angel

To her who bore you! When your infant smile

Made her home Paradise, you were her angel.

O, be an angel still! She needs that smile.

So long as you are innocent, fear nothing.

No one can harm you! I am a poor girl,

Whom chance has taken from the public streets.

I have no other shield than mine own virtue.

That is the charm which has protected me!

Amid a thousand perils, I have worn it

Here on my heart! It is my guardian angel.

Ang. (rising). I thank you for this counsel, dearest lady.

Prec. Thank me by following it.

Ang. Indeed I will.

Prec. Pray, do not go. I have much more to say.

Ang. My mother is alone. I dare not leave her.

Prec. Some other time, then, when we meet again.

You must not go away with words alone.

(Gives her a purse.)

Take this. Would it were more.

Ang. I thank you, lady.

Prec. No thanks. To-morrow come to me again.

I dance to-night,--perhaps for the last time.

But what I gain, I promise shall be yours,

If that can save you from the Count of Lara.

Ang. O, my dear lady! how shall I be grateful

For so much kindness?

Prec. I deserve no thanks,

Thank Heaven, not me.

Ang. Both Heaven and you.

Prec. Farewell.

Remember that you come again tomorrow.

Ang. I will. And may the Blessed Virgin guard you,

And all good angels. [Exit.

Prec. May they guard thee too,

And all the poor; for they have need of angels.

Now bring me, dear Dolores, my basquina,

My richest maja dress,--my dancing dress,

And my most precious jewels! Make me look

Fairer than night e'er saw me! I've a prize

To win this day, worthy of Preciosa!

(Enter BELTRAN CRUZADO.)

Cruz. Ave Maria!

Prec. O God! my evil genius!

What seekest thou here to-day?

Cruz. Thyself,--my child.

Prec. What is thy will with me?

Cruz. Gold! gold!

Prec. I gave thee yesterday; I have no more.

Cruz. The gold of the Busne,--give me his gold!

Prec. I gave the last in charity to-day.

Cruz. That is a foolish lie.

Prec. It is the truth.

Cruz. Curses upon thee! Thou art not my child!

Hast thou given gold away, and not to me?

Not to thy father? To whom, then?

Prec. To one

Who needs it more.

Cruz. No one can need it more.

Prec. Thou art not poor.

Cruz. What, I, who lurk about

In dismal suburbs and unwholesome lanes

I, who am housed worse than the galley slave;

I, who am fed worse than the kennelled hound;

I, who am clothed in rags,--Beltran Cruzado,--

Not poor!

Prec. Thou hast a stout heart and strong hands.

Thou canst supply thy wants; what wouldst thou more?

Cruz. The gold of the Busne! give me his gold!

Prec. Beltran Cruzado! hear me once for all.

I speak the truth. So long as I had gold,

I gave it to thee freely, at all times,

Never denied thee; never had a wish

But to fulfil thine own. Now go in peace!

Be merciful, be patient, and ere long

Thou shalt have more.

Cruz. And if I have it not,

Thou shalt no longer dwell here in rich chambers,

Wear silken dresses, feed on dainty food,

And live in idleness; but go with me,

Dance the Romalis in the public streets,

And wander wild again o'er field and fell;

For here we stay not long.

Prec. What! march again?

Cruz. Ay, with all speed. I hate the crowded town!

I cannot breathe shut up within its gates

Air,--I want air, and sunshine, and blue sky,

The feeling of the breeze upon my face,

The feeling of the turf beneath my feet,

And no walls but the far-off mountain-tops.

Then I am free and strong,--once more myself,

Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Cales!

Prec. God speed thee on thy march!--I cannot go.

Cruz. Remember who I am, and who thou art

Be silent and obey! Yet one thing more.

Bartolome Roman--

Prec. (with emotion). O, I beseech thee

If my obedience and blameless life,

If my humility and meek submission

In all things hitherto, can move in thee

One feeling of compassion; if thou art

Indeed my father, and canst trace in me

One look of her who bore me, or one tone

That doth remind thee of her, let it plead

In my behalf, who am a feeble girl,

Too feeble to resist, and do not force me

To wed that man! I am afraid of him!

I do not love him! On my knees I beg thee

To use no violence, nor do in haste

What cannot be undone!

Cruz. O child, child, child!

Thou hast betrayed thy secret, as a bird

Betrays her nest, by striving to conceal it.

I will not leave thee here in the great city

To be a grandee's mistress. Make thee ready

To go with us; and until then remember

A watchful eye is on thee. [Exit.

Prec. Woe is me!

I have a strange misgiving in my heart!

But that one deed of charity I'll do,

Befall what may; they cannot take that from me.

SCENE II -- A room in the ARCHBISHOP'S Palace. The ARCHBISHOP

and a CARDINAL seated.

Arch. Knowing how near it touched the public morals,

And that our age is grown corrupt and rotten

By such excesses, we have sent to Rome,

Beseeching that his Holiness would aid

In curing the gross surfeit of the time,

By seasonable stop put here in Spain

To bull-fights and lewd dances on the stage.

All this you know.

Card. Know and approve.

Arch. And further,

That, by a mandate from his Holiness,

The first have been suppressed.

Card. I trust forever.

It was a cruel sport.

Arch. A barbarous pastime,

Disgraceful to the land that calls itself

Most Catholic and Christian.

Card. Yet the people

Murmur at this; and, if the public dances

Should be condemned upon too slight occasion,

Worse ills might follow than the ills we cure.

As Panem et Circenses was the cry

Among the Roman populace of old,

So Pan y Toros is the cry in Spain.

Hence I would act advisedly herein;

And therefore have induced your Grace to see

These national dances, ere we interdict them.

(Enter a Servant)

Serv. The dancing-girl, and with her the musicians

Your Grace was pleased to order, wait without.

Arch. Bid them come in. Now shall your eyes behold

In what angelic, yet voluptuous shape

The Devil came to tempt Saint Anthony.

(Enter PRECIOSA, with a mantle thrown over her head. She

advances slowly, in modest, half-timid attitude.)

Card. (aside). O, what a fair and ministering angel

Was lost to heaven when this sweet woman fell!

Prec. (kneeling before the ARCHBISHOP).

I have obeyed the order of your Grace.

If I intrude upon your better hours,

I proffer this excuse, and here beseech

Your holy benediction.

Arch. May God bless thee,

And lead thee to a better life. Arise.

Card. (aside). Her acts are modest, and her words discreet!

I did not look for this! Come hither, child.

Is thy name Preciosa?

Prec. Thus I am called.

Card. That is a Gypsy name. Who is thy father?

Prec. Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Cales.

Arch. I have a dim remembrance of that man:

He was a bold and reckless character,

A sun-burnt Ishmael!

Card. Dost thou remember

Thy earlier days?

Prec. Yes; by the Darro's side

My childhood passed. I can remember still

The river, and the mountains capped with snow

The village, where, yet a little child,

I told the traveller's fortune in the street;

The smuggler's horse, the brigand and the shepherd;

The march across the moor; the halt at noon;

The red fire of the evening camp, that lighted

The forest where we slept; and, further back,

As in a dream or in some former life,

Gardens and palace walls.

Arch. 'T is the Alhambra,

Under whose towers the Gypsy camp was pitched.

But the time wears; and we would see thee dance.

Prec. Your Grace shall be obeyed.

(She lays aside her mantilla. The music of the cachucha is

played, and the dance begins. The ARCHBISHOP and the CARDINAL

look on with gravity and an occasional frown; then make signs to

each other; and, as the dance continues, become more and more

pleased and excited; and at length rise from their seats, throw

their caps in the air, and applaud vehemently as the scene

closes.)

SCENE III. -- The Prado. A long avenue of trees leading to the

gate of Atocha. On the right the dome and spires of a convent.

A fountain. Evening, DON CARLOS and HYPOLITO meeting.

Don C. Hola! good evening, Don Hypolito.

Hyp. And a good evening to my friend, Don Carlos.

Some lucky star has led my steps this way.

I was in search of you.

Don. C. Command me always.

Hyp. Do you remember, in Quevedo's Dreams,

The miser, who, upon the Day of Judgment,

Asks if his money-bags would rise?

Don C. I do;

But what of that?

Hyp. I am that wretched man.

Don C. You mean to tell me yours have risen empty?

Hyp. And amen! said my Cid the Campeador.

Don C. Pray, how much need you?

Hyp. Some half-dozen ounces,

Which, with due interest--

Don C. (giving his purse). What, am I a Jew

To put my moneys out at usury?

Here is my purse.

Hyp. Thank you. A pretty purse.

Made by the hand of some fair Madrilena;

Perhaps a keepsake.

Don C. No, 't is at your service.

Hyp. Thank you again. Lie there, good Chrysostom,

And with thy golden mouth remind me often,

I am the debtor of my friend.

Don C. But tell me,

Come you to-day from Alcala?

Hyp. This moment.

Don C. And pray, how fares the brave Victorian?

Hyp. Indifferent well; that is to say, not well.

A damsel has ensnared him with the glances

Of her dark, roving eyes, as herdsmen catch

A steer of Andalusia with a lazo.

He is in love.

Don C. And is it faring ill

To be in love?

Hyp. In his case very ill.

Don C. Why so?

Hyp. For many reasons. First and foremost,

Because he is in love with an ideal;

A creature of his own imagination;

A child of air; an echo of his heart;

And, like a lily on a river floating,

She floats upon the river of his thoughts!

Don C. A common thing with poets. But who is

This floating lily? For, in fine, some woman,

Some living woman,--not a mere ideal,--

Must wear the outward semblance of his thought.

Who is it? Tell me.

Hyp. Well, it is a woman!

But, look you, from the coffer of his heart

He brings forth precious jewels to adorn her,

As pious priests adorn some favorite saint

With gems and gold, until at length she gleams

One blaze of glory. Without these, you know,

And the priest's benediction, 't is a doll.

Don C. Well, well! who is this doll?

Hyp. Why, who do you think?

Don C. His cousin Violante.

Hyp. Guess again.

To ease his laboring heart, in the last storm

He threw her overboard, with all her ingots.

Don C. I cannot guess; so tell me who it is.

Hyp. Not I.

Don. C. Why not?

Hyp. (mysteriously). Why? Because Mari Franca

Was married four leagues out of Salamanca!

Don C. Jesting aside, who is it?

Hyp. Preciosa.

Don C. Impossible! The Count of Lara tells me

She is not virtuous.

Hyp. Did I say she was?

The Roman Emperor Claudius had a wife

Whose name was Messalina, as I think;

Valeria Messalina was her name.

But hist! I see him yonder through the trees,

Walking as in a dream.

Don C. He comes this way.

Hyp. It has been truly said by some wise man,

That money, grief, and love cannot be hidden.

(Enter VICTORIAN in front.)

Vict. Where'er thy step has passed is holy ground!

These groves are sacred! I behold thee walking

Under these shadowy trees, where we have walked

At evening, and I feel thy presence now;

Feel that the place has taken a charm from thee,

And is forever hallowed.

Hyp. Mark him well!

See how he strides away with lordly air,

Like that odd guest of stone, that grim Commander

Who comes to sup with Juan in the play.

Don C. What ho! Victorian!

Hyp. Wilt thou sup with us?

Vict. Hola! amigos! Faith, I did not see you.

How fares Don Carlos?

Don C. At your service ever.

Vict. How is that young and green-eyed Gaditana

That you both wot of?

Don C. Ay, soft, emerald eyes!

She has gone back to Cadiz.

Hyp. Ay de mi!

Vict. You are much to blame for letting her go back.

A pretty girl; and in her tender eyes

Just that soft shade of green we sometimes see

In evening skies.

Hyp. But, speaking of green eyes,

Are thine green?

Vict. Not a whit. Why so?

Hyp. I think

The slightest shade of green would be becoming,

For thou art jealous.

Vid. No, I am not jealous.

Hyp. Thou shouldst be.

Vict. Why?

Hyp. Because thou art in love.

And they who are in love are always jealous.

Therefore thou shouldst be.

Vict. Marry, is that all?

Farewell; I am in haste. Farewell, Don Carlos.

Thou sayest I should be jealous?

Hyp. Ay, in truth

I fear there is reason. Be upon thy guard.

I hear it whispered that the Count of Lara

Lays siege to the same citadel.

Vict. Indeed!

Then he will have his labor for his pains.

Hyp. He does not think so, and Don Carlos tells me

He boasts of his success.

Vict. How's this, Don Carlos?

Don. C. Some hints of it I heard from his own lips.

He spoke but lightly of the lady's virtue,

As a gay man might speak.

Vict. Death and damnation!

I'll cut his lying tongue out of his mouth,

And throw it to my dog! But no, no, no!

This cannot be. You jest, indeed you jest.

Trifle with me no more. For otherwise

We are no longer friends. And so, fare well!

[Exit.

Hyp. Now what a coil is here! The Avenging Child

Hunting the traitor Quadros to his death,

And the Moor Calaynos, when he rode

To Paris for the ears of Oliver,

Were nothing to him! O hot-headed youth!

But come; we will not follow. Let us join

The crowd that pours into the Prado. There

We shall find merrier company; I see

The Marialonzos and the Almavivas,

And fifty fans, that beckon me already.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV. -- PRECIOSA'S chamber. She is sitting, with a book in

her hand, near a table, on which are flowers. A bird singing in

its cage. The COUNT OF LARA enters behind unperceived.

Prec. (reads).

All are sleeping, weary heart!

Thou, thou only sleepless art!

Heigho! I wish Victorian were here.

I know not what it is makes me so restless!

(The bird sings.)

Thou little prisoner with thy motley coat,

That from thy vaulted, wiry dungeon singest,

Like thee I am a captive, and, like thee,

I have a gentle jailer. Lack-a-day!

All are sleeping, weary heart!

Thou, thou only sleepless art!

All this throbbing, all this aching,

Evermore shall keep thee waking,

For a heart in sorrow breaking

Thinketh ever of its smart!

Thou speakest truly, poet! and methinks

More hearts are breaking in this world of ours

Than one would say. In distant villages

And solitudes remote, where winds have wafted

The barbed seeds of love, or birds of passage

Scattered them in their flight, do they take root,

And grow in silence, and in silence perish.

Who hears the falling of the forest leaf?

Or who takes note of every flower that dies?

Heigho! I wish Victorian would come.

Dolores!

(Turns to lay down her boot and perceives the COUNT.)

Ha!

Lara. Senora, pardon me.

Prec. How's this? Dolores!

Lara. Pardon me--

Prec. Dolores!

Lara. Be not alarmed; I found no one in waiting.

If I have been too bold--

Prec. (turning her back upon him). You are too bold!

Retire! retire, and leave me!

Lara. My dear lady,

First hear me! I beseech you, let me speak!

'T is for your good I come.

Prec. (turning toward him with indignation). Begone! begone!

You are the Count of Lara, but your deeds

Would make the statues of your ancestors

Blush on their tombs! Is it Castilian honor,

Is it Castilian pride, to steal in here

Upon a friendless girl, to do her wrong?

O shame! shame! shame! that you, a nobleman,

Should be so little noble in your thoughts

As to send jewels here to win my love,

And think to buy my honor with your gold!

I have no words to tell you how I scorn you!

Begone! The sight of you is hateful to me!

Begone, I say!

Lara. Be calm; I will not harm you.

Prec. Because you dare not.

Lara. I dare anything!

Therefore beware! You are deceived in me.

In this false world, we do not always know

Who are our friends and who our enemies.

We all have enemies, and all need friends.

Even you, fair Preciosa, here at court

Have foes, who seek to wrong you.

Prec. If to this

I owe the honor of the present visit,

You might have spared the coming. Raving spoken,

Once more I beg you, leave me to myself.

Lara. I thought it but a friendly part to tell you

What strange reports are current here in town.

For my own self, I do not credit them;

But there are many who, not knowing you,

Will lend a readier ear.

Prec. There was no need

That you should take upon yourself the duty

Of telling me these tales.

Lara. Malicious tongues

Are ever busy with your name.

Prec. Alas!

I've no protectors. I am a poor girl,

Exposed to insults and unfeeling jests.

They wound me, yet I cannot shield myself.

I give no cause for these reports. I live

Retired; am visited by none.

Lara. By none?

O, then, indeed, you are much wronged!

Prec. How mean you?

Lara. Nay, nay; I will not wound your gentle soul

By the report of idle tales.

Prec. Speak out!

What are these idle tales? You need not spare me.

Lara. I will deal frankly with you. Pardon me

This window, as I think, looks toward the street,

And this into the Prado, does it not?

In yon high house, beyond the garden wall,--

You see the roof there just above the trees,--

There lives a friend, who told me yesterday,

That on a certain night,--be not offended

If I too plainly speak,--he saw a man

Climb to your chamber window. You are silent!

I would not blame you, being young and fair--

(He tries to embrace her. She starts back, and draws a dagger

from her bosom.)

Prec. Beware! beware! I am a Gypsy girl!

Lay not your hand upon me. One step nearer

And I will strike!

Lara. Pray you, put up that dagger.

Fear not.

Prec. I do not fear. I have a heart

In whose strength I can trust.

Lara. Listen to me

I come here as your friend,--I am your friend,--

And by a single word can put a stop

To all those idle tales, and make your name

Spotless as lilies are. Here on my knees,

Fair Preciosa! on my knees I swear,

I love you even to madness, and that love

Has driven me to break the rules of custom,

And force myself unasked into your presence.

(VICTORIAN enters behind.)

Prec. Rise, Count of Lara! That is not the place

For such as you are. It becomes you not

To kneel before me. I am strangely moved

To see one of your rank thus low and humbled;

For your sake I will put aside all anger,

All unkind feeling, all dislike, and speak

In gentleness, as most becomes a woman,

And as my heart now prompts me. I no more

Will hate you, for all hate is painful to me.

But if, without offending modesty

And that reserve which is a woman's glory,

I may speak freely, I will teach my heart

To love you.

Lara. O sweet angel!

Prec. Ay, in truth,

Far better than you love yourself or me.

Lara. Give me some sign of this,--the slightest token.

Let me but kiss your hand!

Prec. Nay, come no nearer.

The words I utter are its sign and token.

Misunderstand me not! Be not deceived!

The love wherewith I love you is not such

As you would offer me. For you come here

To take from me the only thing I have,

My honor. You are wealthy, you have friends

And kindred, and a thousand pleasant hopes

That fill your heart with happiness; but I

Am poor, and friendless, having but one treasure,

And you would take that from me, and for what?

To flatter your own vanity, and make me

What you would most despise. O sir, such love,

That seeks to harm me, cannot be true love.

Indeed it cannot. But my love for you

Is of a different kind. It seeks your good.

It is a holier feeling. It rebukes

Your earthly passion, your unchaste desires,

And bids you look into your heart, and see

How you do wrong that better nature in you,

And grieve your soul with sin.

Lara. I swear to you,

I would not harm you; I would only love you.

I would not take your honor, but restore it,

And in return I ask but some slight mark

Of your affection. If indeed you love me,

As you confess you do, O let me thus

With this embrace--

Vict. (rushing forward). Hold! hold! This is too much.

What means this outrage?

Lara. First, what right have you

To question thus a nobleman of Spain?

Vict. I too am noble, and you are no more!

Out of my sight!

Lara. Are you the master here?

Vict. Ay, here and elsewhere, when the wrong of others

Gives me the right!

Prec. (to LARA). Go! I beseech you, go!

Vict. I shall have business with you, Count, anon!

Lara. You cannot come too soon!

[Exit.

Prec. Victorian!

O, we have been betrayed!

Vict. Ha! ha! betrayed!

'T is I have been betrayed, not we!--not we!

Prec. Dost thou imagine--

Vict. I imagine nothing;

I see how 't is thou whilest the time away

When I am gone!

Prec. O speak not in that tone!

It wounds me deeply.

Vict. 'T was not meant to flatter.

Prec. Too well thou knowest the presence of that man

Is hateful to me!

Vict. Yet I saw thee stand

And listen to him, when he told his love.

Prec. I did not heed his words.

Vict. Indeed thou didst,

And answeredst them with love.

Prec. Hadst thou heard all--

Vict. I heard enough.

Prec. Be not so angry with me.

Vict. I am not angry; I am very calm.

Prec. If thou wilt let me speak--

Vict. Nay, say no more.

I know too much already. Thou art false!

I do not like these Gypsy marriages!

Where is the ring I gave thee?

Prec. In my casket.

Vict. There let it rest! I would not have thee wear it:

I thought thee spotless, and thou art polluted!

Prec. I call the Heavens to witness--

Vict. Nay, nay, nay!

Take not the name of Heaven upon thy lips!

They are forsworn!

Prec. Victorian! dear Victorian!

Vict. I gave up all for thee; myself, my fame,

My hopes of fortune, ay, my very soul!

And thou hast been my ruin! Now, go on!

Laugh at my folly with thy paramour,

And, sitting on the Count of Lara's knee,

Say what a poor, fond fool Victorian was!

(He casts her from him and rushes out.)

Prec. And this from thee!

(Scene closes.)

SCENE V. -- The COUNT OF LARA'S rooms. Enter the COUNT.

Lara. There's nothing in this world so sweet as love,

And next to love the sweetest thing is hate!

I've learned to hate, and therefore am revenged.

A silly girl to play the prude with me!

The fire that I have kindled--

(Enter FRANCISCO.)

Well, Francisco,

What tidings from Don Juan?

Fran. Good, my lord;

He will be present.

Lara. And the Duke of Lermos?

Fran. Was not at home.

Lara. How with the rest?

Fran. I've found

The men you wanted. They will all be there,

And at the given signal raise a whirlwind

Of such discordant noises, that the dance

Must cease for lack of music.

Lara. Bravely done.

Ah! little dost thou dream, sweet Preciosa,

What lies in wait for thee. Sleep shall not close

Thine eyes this night! Give me my cloak and sword. [Exeunt.

SCENE VI. -- A retired spot beyond the city gates. Enter

VICTORIAN and HYPOLITO.

Vict. O shame! O shame! Why do I walk abroad

By daylight, when the very sunshine mocks me,

And voices, and familiar sights and sounds

Cry, "Hide thyself!" O what a thin partition

Doth shut out from the curious world the knowledge

Of evil deeds that have been done in darkness!

Disgrace has many tongues. My fears are windows,

Through which all eyes seem gazing. Every face

Expresses some suspicion of my shame,

And in derision seems to smile at me!

Hyp. Did I not caution thee? Did I not tell thee

I was but half persuaded of her virtue?

Vict. And yet, Hypolito, we may be wrong,

We may be over-hasty in condemning!

The Count of Lara is a cursed villain.

Hyp. And therefore is she cursed, loving him.

Vid. She does not love him! 'T is for gold! for gold!

Hyp. Ay, but remember, in the public streets

He shows a golden ring the Gypsy gave him,

A serpent with a ruby in its mouth.

Vict. She had that ring from me! God! she is false!

But I will be revenged! The hour is passed.

Where stays the coward?

Hyp. Nay, he is no coward;

A villain, if thou wilt, but not a coward.

I've seen him play with swords; it is his pastime.

And therefore be not over-confident,

He'll task thy skill anon. Look, here he comes.

(Enter LARA followed by FRNANCISCO)

Lara. Good evening, gentlemen.

Hyp. Good evening, Count.

Lara. I trust I have not kept you long in waiting.

Vict. Not long, and yet too long. Are you prepared?

Lara. I am.

Hyp. It grieves me much to see this quarrel

Between you, gentlemen. Is there no way

Left open to accord this difference,

But you must make one with your swords?

Vict. No! none!

I do entreat thee, dear Hypolito,

Stand not between me an my foe. Too long

Our tongues have spoken. Let these tongues of steel

End our debate. Upon your guard, Sir Count.

(They fight. VICTORIAN disarms the COUNT.)

Your life is mine; and what shall now withhold me

From sending your vile soul to its account?

Lara. Strike! strike!

Vict. You are disarmed. I will not kill you.

I will not murder you. Take up your sword.

(FRANCISCO hands the COUNT his sword, and HYPOLITO interposes.)

Hyp. Enough! Let it end here! The Count of Lara

Has shown himself a brave man, and Victorian

A generous one, as ever. Now be friends.

Put up your swords; for, to speak frankly to you,

Your cause of quarrel is too slight a thing

To move you to extremes.

Lara. I am content,

I sought no quarrel. A few hasty words,

Spoken in the heat of blood, have led to this.

Vict. Nay, something more than that.

Lara. I understand you.

Therein I did not mean to cross your path.

To me the door stood open, as to others.

But, had I known the girl belonged to you,

Never would I have sought to win her from you.

The truth stands now revealed; she has been false

To both of us.

Vict. Ay, false as hell itself!

Lara. In truth, I did not seek her; she sought me;

And told me how to win her, telling me

The hours when she was oftenest left alone.

Vict. Say, can you prove this to me? O, pluck out

These awful doubts, that goad me into madness!

Let me know all! all! all!

Lara. You shall know all.

Here is my page, who was the messenger

Between us. Question him. Was it not so,

Francisco?

Fran. Ay, my lord.

Lara. If further proof

Is needful, I have here a ring she gave me.

Vict. Pray let me see that ring! It is the same!

(Throws it upon the ground, and tramples upon it.)

Thus may she perish who once wore that ring!

Thus do I spurn her from me; do thus trample

Her memory in the dust! O Count of Lara,

We both have been abused, been much abused!

I thank you for your courtesy and frankness.

Though, like the surgeon's hand, yours gave me pain,

Yet it has cured my blindness, and I thank you.

I now can see the folly I have done,

Though 't is, alas! too late. So fare you well!

To-night I leave this hateful town forever.

Regard me as your friend. Once more farewell!

Hyp. Farewell, Sir Count.

[Exeunt VICTORIAN and HYPOLITO.

Lara. Farewell! farewell! farewell!

Thus have I cleared the field of my worst foe!

I have none else to fear; the fight is done,

The citadel is stormed, the victory won!

[Exit with FRANCISCO.

SCENE VII. -- A lane in the suburbs. Night. Enter CRUZADO and

BARTOLOME.

Cruz. And so, Bartolome, the expedition failed. But where

wast thou for the most part?

Bart. In the Guadarrama mountains, near San Ildefonso.

Cruz. And thou bringest nothing back with thee? Didst thou

rob no one?

Bart. There was no one to rob, save a party of students from

Segovia, who looked as if they would rob us; and a jolly little

friar, who had nothing in his pockets but a missal and a loaf of

bread.

Cruz. Pray, then, what brings thee back to Madrid?

Bart. First tell me what keeps thee here?

Cruz. Preciosa.

Bart. And she brings me back. Hast thou forgotten thy

promise?

Cruz. The two years are not passed yet. Wait patiently. The

girl shall be thine.

Bart. I hear she has a Busne lover.

Cruz. That is nothing.

Bart. I do not like it. I hate him,--the son of a Busne

harlot. He goes in and out, and speaks with her alone, and I

must stand aside, and wait his pleasure.

Cruz. Be patient, I say. Thou shalt have thy revenge. When

the time comes, thou shalt waylay him.

Bart. Meanwhile, show me her house.

Cruz. Come this way. But thou wilt not find her. She dances

at the play to-night.

Bart. No matter. Show me the house.

[Exeunt.

SCENE VIII. -- The Theatre. The orchestra plays the cachucha.

Sound of castanets behind the scenes. The curtain rises, and

discovers PRECIOSA in the attitude of commencing the dance. The

cachucha. Tumult; hisses; cries of "Brava!" and "Afuera!" She

falters and pauses. The music stops. General confusion.

PRECIOSA faints.

SCENE IX. -- The COUNT OF LARA'S chambers. LARA and his friends

at supper.

Lara. So, Caballeros, once more many thanks!

You have stood by me bravely in this matter.

Pray fill your glasses.

Don J. Did you mark, Don Luis,

How pale she looked, when first the noise began,

And then stood still, with her large eyes dilated!

Her nostrils spread! her lips apart! Her bosom

Tumultuous as the sea!

Don L. I pitied her.

Lara. Her pride is humbled; and this very night

I mean to visit her.

Don J. Will you serenade her?

Lara. No music! no more music!

Don L. Why not music?

It softens many hearts.

Lara. Not in the humor

She now is in. Music would madden her.

Don J. Try golden cymbals.

Don L. Yes, try Don Dinero;

A mighty wooer is your Don Dinero.

Lara. To tell the truth, then, I have bribed her maid.

But, Caballeros, you dislike this wine.

A bumper and away; for the night wears.

A health to Preciosa.

(They rise and drink.)

All. Preciosa.

Lara. (holding up his glass).

Thou bright and flaming minister of Love!

Thou wonderful magician! who hast stolen

My secret from me, and mid sighs of passion

Caught from my lips, with red and fiery tongue,

Her precious name! O nevermore henceforth

Shall mortal lips press thine; and nevermore

A mortal name be whispered in thine ear.

Go! keep my secret!

(Drinks and dashes the goblet down.)

Don J. Ite! missa est!

(Scene closes.)

SCENE X. -- Street and garden wall. Night. Enter CRUZADO and

BARTOLOME.

Cruz. This is the garden wall, and above it, yonder, is her

house. The window in which thou seest the light is her window.

But we will not go in now.

Bart. Why not?

Cruz. Because she is not at home.

Bart. No matter; we can wait. But how is this? The gate is

bolted. (Sound of guitars and voices in a neighboring street.)

Hark! There comes her lover with his infernal serenade! Hark!

SONG.

Good night! Good night, beloved!

I come to watch o'er thee!

To be near thee,--to be near thee,

Alone is peace for me.

Thine eyes are stars of morning,

Thy lips are crimson flowers!

Good night! Good night beloved,

While I count the weary hours.

Cruz. They are not coming this way.

Bart. Wait, they begin again.

SONG (coming nearer).

Ah! thou moon that shinest

Argent-clear above!

All night long enlighten

My sweet lady-love!

Moon that shinest,

All night long enlighten!

Bart. Woe be to him, if he comes this way!

Cruz. Be quiet, they are passing down the street.

SONG (dying away).

The nuns in the cloister

Sang to each other;

For so many sisters

Is there not one brother!

Ay, for the partridge, mother!

The cat has run away with the partridge!

Puss! puss! puss!

Bart. Follow that! follow that!

Come with me. Puss! puss!

(Exeunt. On the opposite side enter the COUNT OF LARA and

gentlemen, with FRANCISCO.)

Lara. The gate is fast. Over the wall, Francisco,

And draw the bolt. There, so, and so, and over.

Now, gentlemen, come in, and help me scale

Yon balcony. How now? Her light still burns.

Move warily. Make fast the gate, Francisco.

(Exeunt. Re-enter CRUZADO and BARTOLOME.)

Bart. They went in at the gate. Hark! I hear them in the

garden. (Tries the gate.) Bolted again! Vive Cristo! Follow me

over the wall.

(They climb the wall.)

SCENE XI. -- PRECIOSA'S bedchamber. Midnight. She is sleeping in

an armchair, in an undress. DOLORES watching her.

Dol. She sleeps at last!

(Opens the window, and listens.)

All silent in the street,

And in the garden. Hark!

Prec. (in her sleep). I must go hence!

Give me my cloak!

Dol. He comes! I hear his footsteps.

Prec. Go tell them that I cannot dance to-night;

I am too ill! Look at me! See the fever

That burns upon my cheek! I must go hence.

I am too weak to dance.

(Signal from the garden.)

Dol. (from the window). Who's there?

Voice (from below). A friend.

Dol. I will undo the door. Wait till I come.

Prec. I must go hence. I pray you do not harm me!

Shame! shame! to treat a feeble woman thus!

Be you but kind, I will do all things for you.

I'm ready now,--give me my castanets.

Where is Victorian? Oh, those hateful lamps!

They glare upon me like an evil eye.

I cannot stay. Hark! how they mock at me!

They hiss at me like serpents! Save me! save me!

(She wakes.)

How late is it, Dolores?

Dol. It is midnight.

Prec. We must be patient. Smooth this pillow for me.

(She sleeps again. Noise from the garden, and voices.)

Voice. Muera!

Another Voice. O villains! villains!

Lara. So! have at you!

Voice. Take that!

Lara. O, I am wounded!

Dol. (shutting the window). Jesu Maria!

ACT III.

SCENE I. -- A cross-road through a wood. In the background a

distant village spire. VICTORIAN and HYPOLITO, as travelling

students, with guitars, sitting under the trees. HYPOLITO plays

and sings.

SONG.

Ah, Love!

Perjured, false, treacherous Love!

Enemy

Of all that mankind may not rue!

Most untrue

To him who keeps most faith with thee.

Woe is me!

The falcon has the eyes of the dove.

Ah, Love!

Perjured, false, treacherous Love!

Vict. Yes, Love is ever busy with his shuttle,

Is ever weaving into life's dull warp

Bright, gorgeous flowers and scenes Arcadian;

Hanging our gloomy prison-house about

With tapestries, that make its walls dilate

In never-ending vistas of delight.

Hyp. Thinking to walk in those Arcadian pastures,

Thou hast run thy noble head against the wall.

SONG (continued).

Thy deceits

Give us clearly to comprehend,

Whither tend

All thy pleasures, all thy sweets!

They are cheats,

Thorns below and flowers above.

Ah, Love!

Perjured, false, treacherous Love!

Vict. A very pretty song. I thank thee for it.

Hyp. It suits thy case.

Vict. Indeed, I think it does.

What wise man wrote it?

Hyp. Lopez Maldonado.

Vict. In truth, a pretty song.

Hyp. With much truth in it.

I hope thou wilt profit by it; and in earnest

Try to forget this lady of thy love.

Vict. I will forget her! All dear recollections

Pressed in my heart, like flowers within a book,

Shall be torn out, and scattered to the winds!

I will forget her! But perhaps hereafter,

When she shall learn how heartless is the world,

A voice within her will repeat my name,

And she will say, "He was indeed my friend!"

O, would I were a soldier, not a scholar,

That the loud march, the deafening beat of drums,

The shattering blast of the brass-throated trumpet,

The din of arms, the onslaught and the storm,

And a swift death, might make me deaf forever

To the upbraidings of this foolish heart!

Hyp. Then let that foolish heart upbraid no more!

To conquer love, one need but will to conquer.

Vict. Yet, good Hypolito, it is in vain

I throw into Oblivion's sea the sword

That pierces me; for, like Excalibar,

With gemmed and flashing hilt, it will not sink.

There rises from below a hand that grasp it,

And waves it in the air; and wailing voices

Are heard along the shore.

Hyp. And yet at last

Down sank Excalibar to rise no more.

This is not well. In truth, it vexes me.

Instead of whistling to the steeds of Time,

To make them jog on merrily with life's burden,

Like a dead weight thou hangest on the wheels.

Thou art too young, too full of lusty health

To talk of dying.

Vict. Yet I fain would die!

To go through life, unloving and unloved;

To feel that thirst and hunger of the soul

We cannot still; that longing, that wild impulse,

And struggle after something we have not

And cannot have; the effort to be strong

And, like the Spartan boy, to smile, and smile,

While secret wounds do bleed beneath our cloaks

All this the dead feel not,--the dead alone!

Would I were with them!

Hyp. We shall all be soon.

Vict. It cannot be too soon; for I am weary

Of the bewildering masquerade of Life,

Where strangers walk as friends, and friends as strangers;

Where whispers overheard betray false hearts;

And through the mazes of the crowd we chase

Some form of loveliness, that smiles, and beckons,

And cheats us with fair words, only to leave us

A mockery and a jest; maddened,--confused,--

Not knowing friend from foe.

Hyp. Why seek to know?

Enjoy the merry shrove-tide of thy youth!

Take each fair mask for what it gives itself,

Nor strive to look beneath it.

Vict. I confess,

That were the wiser part. But Hope no longer

Comforts my soul. I am a wretched man,

Much like a poor and shipwrecked mariner,

Who, struggling to climb up into the boat,

Has both his bruised and bleeding hands cut off,

And sinks again into the weltering sea,

Helpless and hopeless!

Hyp. Yet thou shalt not perish.

The strength of thine own arm is thy salvation.

Above thy head, through rifted clouds, there shines

A glorious star. Be patient. Trust thy star!

(Sound of a village belt in the distance.)

Vict. Ave Maria! I hear the sacristan

Ringing the chimes from yonder village belfry!

A solemn sound, that echoes far and wide

Over the red roofs of the cottages,

And bids the laboring hind a-field, the shepherd,

Guarding his flock, the lonely muleteer,

And all the crowd in village streets, stand still,

And breathe a prayer unto the blessed Virgin!

Hyp. Amen! amen! Not half a league from hence

The village lies.

Vict. This path will lead us to it,

Over the wheat-fields, where the shadows sail

Across the running sea, now green, now blue,

And, like an idle mariner on the main,

Whistles the quail. Come, let us hasten on.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II. -- Public square in the village of Guadarrama. The Ave

Maria still tolling. A crowd of villagers, with their hats in

their hands, as if in prayer. In front, a group of Gypsies. The

bell rings a merrier peal. A Gypsy dance. Enter PANCHO,

followed by PEDRO CRESPO.

Pancho. Make room, ye vagabonds and Gypsy thieves!

Make room for the Alcalde and for me!

Pedro C. Keep silence all! I have an edict here

From our most gracious lord, the King of Spain,

Jerusalem, and the Canary Islands,

Which I shall publish in the market-place.

Open your ears and listen!

(Enter the PADRE CURA at the door of his cottage.)

Padre Cura,

Good day! and, pray you, hear this edict read.

Padre C. Good day, and God be with you! Pray, what is it?

Pedro C. An act of banishment against the Gypsies!

(Agitation and murmurs in the crowd.)

Pancho. Silence!

Pedro C. (reads). "I hereby order and command,

That the Egyptian an Chaldean strangers,

Known by the name of Gypsies, shall henceforth

Be banished from the realm, as vagabonds

And beggars; and if, after seventy days,

Any be found within our kingdom's bounds,

They shall receive a hundred lashes each;

The second time, shall have their ears cut off;

The third, be slaves for life to him who takes them,

Or burnt as heretics. Signed, I, the King."

Vile miscreants and creatures unbaptized!

You hear the law! Obey and disappear!

Pancho. And if in seventy days you are not gone,

Dead or alive I make you all my slaves.

(The Gypsies go out in confusion, showing signs of fear and

discontent. PANCHO follows.)

Padre C. A righteous law! A very righteous law!

Pray you, sit down.

Pedro C. I thank you heartily.

(They seat themselves on a bench at the PADRE CURAS door. Sound

of guitars heard at a distance, approaching during the dialogue

which follows.)

A very righteous judgment, as you say.

Now tell me, Padre Cura,--you know all things,

How came these Gypsies into Spain?

Padre C. Why, look you;

They came with Hercules from Palestine,

And hence are thieves and vagrants, Sir Alcalde,

As the Simoniacs from Simon Magus,

And, look you, as Fray Jayme Bleda says,

There are a hundred marks to prove a Moor

Is not a Christian, so 't is with the Gypsies.

They never marry, never go to mass,

Never baptize their children, nor keep Lent,

Nor see the inside of a church,--nor--nor--

Pedro C. Good reasons, good, substantial reasons all!

No matter for the other ninety-five.

They should be burnt, I see it plain enough,

They should be bunt.

(Enter VICTORIAN and HYPOLITO playing.)

Padre C. And pray, whom have we here?

Pedro C. More vagrants! By Saint Lazarus, more vagrants!

Hyp. Good evening, gentlemen! Is this Guadarrama?

Padre C. Yes, Guadarrama, and good evening to you.

Hyp. We seek the Padre Cura of the village;

And, judging from your dress and reverend mien,

You must be he.

Padre C. I am. Pray, what's your pleasure?

Hyp. We are poor students, traveling in vacation.

You know this mark?

(Touching the wooden spoon in his hat-band.

Padre C. (joyfully). Ay, know it, and have worn it.

Pedro C. (aside). Soup-eaters! by the mass! The worst of vagrants!

And there's no law against them. Sir, your servant.

[Exit.

Padre C. Your servant, Pedro Crespo.

Hyp. Padre Cura,

Front the first moment I beheld your face,

I said within myself, "This is the man!"

There is a certain something in your looks,

A certain scholar-like and studious something,--

You understand,--which cannot be mistaken;

Which marks you as a very learned man,

In fine, as one of us.

Vict. (aside). What impudence!

Hyp. As we approached, I said to my companion,

"That is the Padre Cura; mark my words!"

Meaning your Grace. "The other man," said I,

Who sits so awkwardly upon the bench,

Must be the sacristan."

Padre C. Ah! said you so?

Why, that was Pedro Crespo, the alcalde!

Hyp. Indeed! you much astonish me! His air

Was not so full of dignity and grace

As an alcalde's should be.

Padre C. That is true.

He's out of humor with some vagrant Gypsies,

Who have their camp here in the neighborhood.

There's nothing so undignified as anger.

Hyp. The Padre Cura will excuse our boldness,

If, from his well-known hospitality,

We crave a lodging for the night.

Padre C. I pray you!

You do me honor! I am but too happy

To have such guests beneath my humble roof.

It is not often that I have occasion

To speak with scholars; and Emollit mores,

Nec sinit esse feros, Cicero says.

Hyp. 'T is Ovid, is it not?

Padre C. No, Cicero.

Hyp. Your Grace is right. You are the better scholar.

Now what a dunce was I to think it Ovid!

But hang me if it is not! (Aside.)

Padre C. Pass this way.

He was a very great man, was Cicero!

Pray you, go in, go in! no ceremony.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III. -- A room in the PADRE CURA'S house. Enter the PADRE

and HYPOLITO.

Padre C. So then, Senor, you come from Alcala.

I am glad to hear it. It was there I studied.

Hyp. And left behind an honored name, no doubt.

How may I call your Grace?

Padre C. Geronimo

De Santillana, at your Honor's service.

Hyp. Descended from the Marquis Santillana?

From the distinguished poet?

Padre C. From the Marquis,

Not from the poet.

Hyp. Why, they were the same.

Let me embrace you! O some lucky star

Has brought me hither! Yet once more!--once more!

Your name is ever green in Alcala,

And our professor, when we are unruly,

Will shake his hoary head, and say, "Alas!

It was not so in Santillana's time!"

Padre C. I did not think my name remembered there.

Hyp. More than remembered; it is idolized.

Padre C. Of what professor speak you?

Hyp. Timoneda.

Padre C. I don't remember any Timoneda.

Hyp. A grave and sombre man, whose beetling brow

O'erhangs the rushing current of his speech

As rocks o'er rivers hang. Have you forgotten?

Padre C. Indeed, I have. O, those were pleasant days,

Those college days! I ne'er shall see the like!

I had not buried then so many hopes!

I had not buried then so many friends!

I've turned my back on what was then before me;

And the bright faces of my young companions

Are wrinkled like my own, or are no more.

Do you remember Cueva?

Hyp. Cueva? Cueva?

Padre C. Fool that I am! He was before your time.

You're a mere boy, and I am an old man.

Hyp. I should not like to try my strength with you.

Padre C. Well, well. But I forget; you must be hungry.

Martina! ho! Martina! 'T is my niece.

(Enter MARTINA.)

Hyp. You may be proud of such a niece as that.

I wish I had a niece. Emollit mores.

(Aside.)

He was a very great man, was Cicero!

Your servant, fair Martina.

Mart. Servant, sir.

Padre C. This gentleman is hungry. See thou to it.

Let us have supper.

Mart. 'T will be ready soon.

Padre C. And bring a bottle of my Val-de-Penas

Out of the cellar. Stay; I'll go myself.

Pray you. Senor, excuse me. [Exit.

Hyp. Hist! Martina!

One word with you. Bless me I what handsome eyes!

To-day there have been Gypsies in the village.

Is it not so?

Mart. There have been Gypsies here.

Hyp. Yes, and have told your fortune.

Mart. (embarrassed). Told my fortune?

Hyp. Yes, yes; I know they did. Give me your hand.

I'll tell you what they said. They said,--they said,

The shepherd boy that loved you was a clown,

And him you should not marry. Was it not?

Mart. (surprised). How know you that?

Hyp. O, I know more than that,

What a soft, little hand! And then they said,

A cavalier from court, handsome, and tall

And rich, should come one day to marry you,

And you should be a lady. Was it not!

He has arrived, the handsome cavalier.

(Tries to kiss her. She runs off. Enter VICTORIAN, with a

letter.)

Vict. The muleteer has come.

Hyp. So soon?

Vict. I found him

Sitting at supper by the tavern door,

And, from a pitcher that he held aloft

His whole arm's length, drinking the blood-red wine.

Hyp. What news from Court?

Vict. He brought this letter only.

(Reads.)

O cursed perfidy! Why did I let

That lying tongue deceive me! Preciosa,

Sweet Preciosa! how art thou avenged!

Hyp. What news is this, that makes thy cheek turn pale,

And thy hand tremble?

Vict. O, most infamous!

The Count of Lara is a worthless villain!

Hyp. That is no news, forsooth.

Vict. He strove in vain

To steal from me the jewel of my soul,

The love of Preciosa. Not succeeding,

He swore to be revenged; and set on foot

A plot to ruin her, which has succeeded.

She has been hissed and hooted from the stage,

Her reputation stained by slanderous lies

Too foul to speak of; and, once more a beggar,

She roams a wanderer over God's green earth

Housing with Gypsies!

Hyp. To renew again

The Age of Gold, and make the shepherd swains

Desperate with love, like Gasper Gil's Diana.

Redit et Virgo!

Vict. Dear Hypolito,

How have I wronged that meek, confiding heart!

I will go seek for her; and with my tears

Wash out the wrong I've done her!

Hyp. O beware!

Act not that folly o'er again.

Vict. Ay, folly,

Delusion, madness, call it what thou wilt,

I will confess my weakness,--I still love her!

Still fondly love her!

(Enter the PADRE CURA.)

Hyp. Tell us, Padre Cura,

Who are these Gypsies in the neighborhood?

Padre C. Beltran Cruzado and his crew.

Vict. Kind Heaven,

I thank thee! She is found! is found again!

Hyp. And have they with them a pale, beautiful girl,

Called Preciosa?

Padre C. Ay, a pretty girl.

The gentleman seems moved.

Hyp. Yes, moved with hunger,

He is half famished with this long day's journey.

Padre C. Then, pray you, come this way. The supper waits.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV. -- A post-house on the road to Segovia, not far from

the village of Guadarrama. Enter CHISPA, cracking a whip, and

singing the cachucha.

Chispa. Halloo! Don Fulano! Let us have horses, and quickly.

Alas, poor Chispa! what a dog's life dost thou lead! I thought,

when I left my old master Victorian, the student, to serve my

new master Don Carlos, the gentleman, that I, too, should lead the

life of a gentleman; should go to bed early, and get up late.

For when the abbot plays cards, what can you expect of the

friars? But, in running away from the thunder, I have run into

the lightning. Here I am in hot chase after my master and his

Gypsy girl. And a good beginning of the week it is, as he said

who was hanged on Monday morning.

(Enter DON CARLOS)

Don C. Are not the horses ready yet?

Chispa. I should think not, for the hostler seems to be

asleep. Ho! within there! Horses! horses! horses! (He knocks at

the gate with his whip, and enter MOSQUITO, putting on his

jacket.)

Mosq. Pray, have a little patience. I'm not a musket.

Chispa. Health and pistareens! I'm glad to see you come on

dancing, padre! Pray, what's the news?

Mosq. You cannot have fresh horses; because there are none.

Chispa. Cachiporra! Throw that bone to another dog. Do I look

like your aunt?

Mosq. No; she has a beard.

Chispa. Go to! go to!

Mosq. Are you from Madrid?

Chispa. Yes; and going to Estramadura. Get us horses.

Mosq. What's the news at Court?

Chispa. Why, the latest news is, that I am going to set up a

coach, and I have already bought the whip.

(Strikes him round the legs.)

Mosq. Oh! oh! You hurt me!

Don C. Enough of this folly. Let us have horses. (Gives

money to MOSQUITO.) It is almost dark; and we are in haste. But

tell me, has a band of Gypsies passed this way of late?

Mosq. Yes; and they are still in the neighborhood.

Don C. And where?

Mosq. Across the fields yonder, in the woods near Guadarrama.

[Exit.

Don C. Now this is lucky. We will visit the Gypsy camp.

Chispa. Are you not afraid of the evil eye? Have you a stag's

horn with you?

Don C. Fear not. We will pass the night at the village.

Chispa. And sleep like the Squires of Hernan Daza, nine under

one blanket.

Don C. I hope we may find the Preciosa among them.

Chispa. Among the Squires?

Don C. No; among the Gypsies, blockhead!

Chispa. I hope we may; for we are giving ourselves trouble

enough on her account. Don't you think so? However, there is no

catching trout without wetting one's trousers. Yonder come the

horses.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V. -- The Gypsy camp in the forest. Night. Gypsies

working at a forge. Others playing cards by the firelight.

Gypsies (at the forge sing).

On the top of a mountain I stand,

With a crown of red gold in my hand,

Wild Moors come trooping over the lea

O how from their fury shall I flee, flee, flee?

O how from their fury shall I flee?

First Gypsy (playing). Down with your John-Dorados, my pigeon.

Down with your John-Dorados, and let us make an end.

Gypsies (at the forge sing).

Loud sang the Spanish cavalier,

And thus his ditty ran;

God send the Gypsy lassie here,

And not the Gypsy man.

First Gypsy (playing). There you are in your morocco!

Second Gypsy. One more game. The Alcalde's doves against the

Padre Cura's new moon.

First Gypsy. Have at you, Chirelin.

Gypsies (at the forge sing).

At midnight, when the moon began

To show her silver flame,

There came to him no Gypsy man,

The Gypsy lassie came.

(Enter BELTRAN CRUZADO.)

Cruz. Come hither, Murcigalleros and Rastilleros; leave work,

leave play; listen to your orders for the night. (Speaking to

the right.) You will get you to the village, mark you, by the

stone cross.

Gypsies. Ay!

Cruz. (to the left). And you, by the pole with the hermit's

head upon it.

Gypsies. Ay!

Cruz. As soon as you see the planets are out, in with you, and

be busy with the ten commandments, under the sly, and Saint

Martin asleep. D'ye hear?

Gypsies. Ay!

Cruz. Keep your lanterns open, and, if you see a goblin or a

papagayo, take to your trampers. Vineyards and Dancing John is

the word. Am I comprehended?

Gypsies. Ay! ay!

Cruz. Away, then!

(Exeunt severally. CRUZADO walks up the stage, and disappears

among the trees. Enter PRECIOSA.)

Prec. How strangely gleams through the gigantic trees

The red light of the forge! Wild, beckoning shadows

Stalk through the forest, ever and anon

Rising and bending with the flickering flame,

Then flitting into darkness! So within me

Strange hopes and fears do beckon to each other,

My brightest hopes giving dark fears a being

As the light does the shadow. Woe is me

How still it is about me, and how lonely!

(BARTOLOME rushes in.)

Bart. Ho! Preciosa!

Prec. O Bartolome!

Thou here?

Bart. Lo! I am here.

Prec. Whence comest thou?

Bart. From the rough ridges of the wild Sierra,

From caverns in the rocks, from hunger, thirst,

And fever! Like a wild wolf to the sheepfold.

Come I for thee, my lamb.

Prec. O touch me not!

The Count of Lara's blood is on thy hands!

The Count of Lara's curse is on thy soul!

Do not come near me! Pray, begone from here

Thou art in danger! They have set a price

Upon thy head!

Bart. Ay, and I've wandered long

Among the mountains; and for many days

Have seen no human face, save the rough swineherd's.

The wind and rain have been my sole companions.

I shouted to them from the rocks thy name,

And the loud echo sent it back to me,

Till I grew mad. I could not stay from thee,

And I am here! Betray me, if thou wilt.

Prec. Betray thee? I betray thee?

Bart. Preciosa!

I come for thee! for thee I thus brave death!

Fly with me o'er the borders of this realm!

Fly with me!

Prec. Speak of that no more. I cannot.

I'm thine no longer.

Bart. O, recall the time

When we were children! how we played together,

How we grew up together; how we plighted

Our hearts unto each other, even in childhood!

Fulfil thy promise, for the hour has come.

I'm hunted from the kingdom, like a wolf!

Fulfil thy promise.

Prec. 'T was my father's promise.

Not mine. I never gave my heart to thee,

Nor promised thee my hand!

Bart. False tongue of woman!

And heart more false!

Prec. Nay, listen unto me.

I will speak frankly. I have never loved thee;

I cannot love thee. This is not my fault,

It is my destiny. Thou art a man

Restless and violent. What wouldst thou with me,

A feeble girl, who have not long to live,

Whose heart is broken? Seek another wife,

Better than I, and fairer; and let not

Thy rash and headlong moods estrange her from thee.

Thou art unhappy in this hopeless passion,

I never sought thy love; never did aught

To make thee love me. Yet I pity thee,

And most of all I pity thy wild heart,

That hurries thee to crimes and deeds of blood,

Beware, beware of that.

Bart. For thy dear sake

I will be gentle. Thou shalt teach me patience.

Prec. Then take this farewell, and depart in peace.

Thou must not linger here.

Bart. Come, come with me.

Prec. Hark! I hear footsteps.

Bart. I entreat thee, come!

Prec. Away! It is in vain.

Bart. Wilt thou not come?

Prec. Never!

Bart. Then woe, eternal woe, upon thee!

Thou shalt not be another's. Thou shalt die.

[Exit.

Prec. All holy angels keep me in this hour!

Spirit of her who bore me, look upon me!

Mother of God, the glorified, protect me!

Christ and the saints, be merciful unto me!

Yet why should I fear death? What is it to die?

To leave all disappointment, care, and sorrow,

To leave all falsehood, treachery, and unkindness,

All ignominy, suffering, and despair,

And be at rest forever! O dull heart,

Be of good cheer! When thou shalt cease to beat,

Then shalt thou cease to suffer and complain!

(Enter VICTORIAN and HYPOLITO behind.)

Vict. 'T is she! Behold, how beautiful she stands

Under the tent-like trees!

Hyp. A woodland nymph!

Vict. I pray thee, stand aside. Leave me.

Hyp. Be wary.

Do not betray thyself too soon.

Vict. (disguising his voice). Hist! Gypsy!

Prec. (aside, with emotion).

That voice! that voice from heaven! O speak again!

Who is it calls?

Vict. A friend.

Prec. (aside). 'T is he! 'T is he!

I thank thee, Heaven, that thou hast heard my prayer,

And sent me this protector! Now be strong,

Be strong, my heart! I must dissemble here.

False friend or true?

Vict. A true friend to the true;

Fear not; come hither. So; can you tell fortunes?

Prec. Not in the dark. Come nearer to the fire.

Give me your hand. It is not crossed, I see.

Vict. (putting a piece of gold into her hand). There is the

cross.

Prec. Is 't silver?

Vict. No, 't is gold.

Prec. There's a fair lady at the Court, who loves you,

And for yourself alone.

Vict. Fie! the old story!

Tell me a better fortune for my money;

Not this old woman's tale!

Prec. You are passionate;

And this same passionate humor in your blood

Has marred your fortune. Yes; I see it now;

The line of life is crossed by many marks.

Shame! shame! O you have wronged the maid who loved you!

How could you do it?

Vict. I never loved a maid;

For she I loved was then a maid no more.

Prec. How know you that?

Vict. A little bird in the air

Whispered the secret.

Prec. There, take back your gold!

Your hand is cold, like a deceiver's hand!

There is no blessing in its charity!

Make her your wife, for you have been abused;

And you shall mend your fortunes, mending hers.

Vict. (aside). How like an angel's speaks the tongue of woman,

When pleading in another's cause her own!

That is a pretty ring upon your finger.

Pray give it me. (Tries to take the ring.)

Prec. No; never from my hand

Shall that be taken!

Vict. Why, 't is but a ring.

I'll give it back to you; or, if I keep it,

Will give you gold to buy you twenty such.

Prec. Why would you have this ring?

Vict. A traveller's fancy,

A whim, and nothing more. I would fain keep it

As a memento of the Gypsy camp

In Guadarrama, and the fortune-teller

Who sent me back to wed a widowed maid.

Pray, let me have the ring.

Prec. No, never! never!

I will not part with it, even when I die;

But bid my nurse fold my pale fingers thus,

That it may not fall from them. 'T is a token

Of a beloved friend, who is no more.

Vict. How? dead?

Prec. Yes; dead to me; and worse than dead.

He is estranged! And yet I keep this ring.

I will rise with it from my grave hereafter,

To prove to him that I was never false.

Vict. (aside). Be still, my swelling heart! one moment, still!

Why, 't is the folly of a love-sick girl.

Come, give it me, or I will say 't is mine,

And that you stole it.

Prec. O, you will not dare

To utter such a falsehood!

Vict. I not dare?

Look in my face, and say if there is aught

I have not dared, I would not dare for thee!

(She rushes into his arms.)

Prec. 'T is thou! 't is thou! Yes; yes; my heart's elected!

My dearest-dear Victorian! my soul's heaven!

Where hast thou been so long? Why didst thou leave me?

Vict. Ask me not now, my dearest Preciosa.

Let me forget we ever have been parted!

Prec. Hadst thou not come--

Vict. I pray thee, do not chide me!

Prec. I should have perished here among these Gypsies.

Vict. Forgive me, sweet! for what I made thee suffer.

Think'st thou this heart could feel a moment's joy,

Thou being absent? O, believe it not!

Indeed, since that sad hour I have not slept,

For thinking of the wrong I did to thee

Dost thou forgive me? Say, wilt thou forgive me?

Prec. I have forgiven thee. Ere those words of anger

Were in the book of Heaven writ down against thee,

I had forgiven thee.

Vict. I'm the veriest fool

That walks the earth, to have believed thee false.

It was the Count of Lara--

Prec. That bad man

Has worked me harm enough. Hast thou not heard--

Vict. I have heard all. And yet speak on, speak on!

Let me but hear thy voice, and I am happy;

For every tone, like some sweet incantation,

Calls up the buried past to plead for me.

Speak, my beloved, speak into my heart,

Whatever fills and agitates thine own.

(They walk aside.)

Hyp. All gentle quarrels in the pastoral poets,

All passionate love scenes in the best romances,

All chaste embraces on the public stage,

All soft adventures, which the liberal stars

Have winked at, as the natural course of things,

Have been surpassed here by my friend, the student,

And this sweet Gypsy lass, fair Preciosa!

Prec. Senor Hypolito! I kiss your hand.

Pray, shall I tell your fortune?

Hyp. Not to-night;

For, should you treat me as you did Victorian,

And send me back to marry maids forlorn,

My wedding day would last from now till Christmas.

Chispa (within). What ho! the Gypsies, ho! Beltran Cruzado!

Halloo! halloo! halloo! halloo!

(Enters booted, with a whip and lantern.

Vict. What now

Why such a fearful din? Hast thou been robbed?

Chispa. Ay, robbed and murdered; and good evening to you,

My worthy masters.

Vict. Speak; what brings thee here?

CHISPA (to PRECIOSA).

Good news from Court; good news! Beltran Cruzado,

The Count of the Cales, is not your father,

But your true father has returned to Spain

Laden with wealth. You are no more a Gypsy.

Vict. Strange as a Moorish tale!

Chispa. And we have all

Been drinking at the tavern to your health,

As wells drink in November, when it rains.

Vict. Where is the gentlemen?

Chispa. As the old song says,

His body is in Segovia,

His soul is in Madrid,

Prec. Is this a dream? O, if it be a dream,

Let me sleep on, and do not wake me yet!

Repeat thy story! Say I'm not deceived!

Say that I do not dream! I am awake;

This is the Gypsy camp; this is Victorian,

And this his friend, Hypolito! Speak! speak!

Let me not wake and find it all a dream!

Vict. It is a dream, sweet child! a waking dream,

A blissful certainty, a vision bright

Of that rare happiness, which even on earth

Heaven gives to those it loves. Now art thou rich,

As thou wast ever beautiful and good;

And I am now the beggar.

Prec. (giving him her hand). I have still

A hand to give.

Chispa (aside). And I have two to take.

I've heard my grandmother say, that Heaven gives almonds

To those who have no teeth. That's nuts to crack,

I've teeth to spare, but where shall I find almonds?

Vict. What more of this strange story?

Chispa. Nothing more.

Your friend, Don Carlos, is now at the village

Showing to Pedro Crespo, the Alcalde,

The proofs of what I tell you. The old hag,

Who stole you in your childhood, has confessed;

And probably they'll hang her for the crime,

To make the celebration more complete.

Vict. No; let it be a day of general joy;

Fortune comes well to all, that comes not late.

Now let us join Don Carlos.

Hyp. So farewell,

The student's wandering life! Sweet serenades,

Sung under ladies' windows in the night,

And all that makes vacation beautiful!

To you, ye cloistered shades of Alcala,

To you, ye radiant visions of romance,

Written in books, but here surpassed by truth,

The Bachelor Hypolito returns,

And leaves the Gypsy with the Spanish Student.

SCENE VI. -- A pass in the Guadarrama mountains. Early morning.

A muleteer crosses the stage, sitting sideways on his mule and

lighting a paper cigar with flint and steel.

SONG.

If thou art sleeping, maiden,

Awake and open thy door,

'T is the break of day, and we must away,

O'er meadow, and mount, and moor.

Wait not to find thy slippers,

But come with thy naked feet;

We shall have to pass through the dewy grass,

And waters wide and fleet.

(Disappears down the pass. Enter a Monk. A shepherd appears on

the rocks above.)

Monk. Ave Maria, gratia plena. Ola! good man!

Shep. Ola!

Monk. Is this the road to Segovia?

Shep. It is, your reverence.

Monk. How far is it?

Shep. I do not know.

Monk. What is that yonder in the valley?

Shep. San Ildefonso.

Monk. A long way to breakfast.

Shep. Ay, marry.

Monk. Are there robbers in these mountains?

Shep. Yes, and worse than that.

Monk. What?

Shep. Wolves.

Monk. Santa Maria! Come with me to San Ildefonso, and thou

shalt be well rewarded.

Shep. What wilt thou give me?

Monk. An Agnus Dei and my benediction.

(They disappear. A mounted Contrabandista passes, wrapped in his

cloak, and a gun at his saddle-bow. He goes down the pass

singing.)

SONG.

Worn with speed is my good steed,

And I march me hurried, worried;

Onward, caballito mio,

With the white star in thy forehead!

Onward, for here comes the Ronda,

And I hear their rifles crack!

Ay, jaleo! Ay, ay, jaleo!

Ay, jaleo! They cross our track.

(Song dies away. Enter PRECIOSA, on horseback, attended by

VICTORIAN, HYPOLITO, DON CARLOS, and CHISPA, on foot, and armed.)

Vict. This is the highest point. Here let us rest.

See, Preciosa, see how all about us

Kneeling, like hooded friars, the misty mountains

Receive the benediction of the sun!

O glorious sight!

Prec. Most beautiful indeed!

Hyp. Most wonderful!

Vict. And in the vale below,

Where yonder steeples flash like lifted halberds,

San Ildefonso, from its noisy belfries,

Sends up a salutation to the morn,

As if an army smote their brazen shields,

And shouted victory!

Prec. And which way lies Segovia?

Vict. At a great distance yonder.

Dost thou not see it?

Prec. No. I do not see it.

Vict. The merest flaw that dents the horizon's edge.

There, yonder!

Hyp. 'T is a notable old town,

Boasting an ancient Roman aqueduct,

And an Alcazar, builded by the Moors,

Wherein, you may remember, poor Gil Blas

Was fed on Pan del Rey. O, many a time

Out of its grated windows have I looked

Hundreds of feet plumb down to the Eresma,

That, like a serpent through the valley creeping,

Glides at its foot.

Prec. O yes! I see it now,

Yet rather with my heart than with mine eyes,

So faint it is. And all my thoughts sail thither,

Freighted with prayers and hopes, and forward urged

Against all stress of accident, as in

The Eastern Tale, against the wind and tide

Great ships were drawn to the Magnetic Mountains,

And there were wrecked, and perished in the sea!

(She weeps.)

Vict. O gentle spirit! Thou didst bear unmoved

Blasts of adversity and frosts of fate!

But the first ray of sunshine that falls on thee

Melts thee to tears! O, let thy weary heart

Lean upon mine! and it shall faint no more,

Nor thirst, nor hunger; but be comforted

And filled with my affection.

Prec. Stay no longer!

My father waits. Methinks I see him there,

Now looking from the window, and now watching

Each sound of wheels or footfall in the street,

And saying, "Hark! she comes!" O father! father!

(They descend the pass. CHISPA remains behind.)

Chispa. I have a father, too, but he is a dead one. Alas and

alack-a-day. Poor was I born, and poor do I remain. I neither

win nor lose. Thus I was, through the world, half the time on

foot, and the other half walking; and always as merry as a

thunder-storm in the night. And so we plough along, as the fly

said to the ox. Who knows what may happen? Patience, and

shuffle the cards! I am not yet so bald that you can see my

brains; and perhaps, after all, I shall some day go to Rome, and

come back Saint Peter. Benedicite!

[Exit.

(A pause. Then enter BARTOLOME wildly, as if in pursuit, with a

carbine in his hand.)

Bart. They passed this way! I hear their horses' hoofs!

Yonder I see them! Come, sweet caramillo,

This serenade shall be the Gypsy's last!

(Fires down the pass.)

Ha! ha! Well whistled, my sweet caramillo!

Well whistled!--I have missed her!--O my God!

(The shot is returned. BARTOLOME falls).

THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS

CARILLON

In the ancient town of Bruges,

In the quaint old Flemish city,

As the evening shades descended,

Low and loud and sweetly blended,

Low at times and loud at times,

And changing like a poet's rhymes,

Rang the beautiful wild chimes

From the Belfry in the market

Of the ancient town of Bruges.

Then, with deep sonorous clangor

Calmly answering their sweet anger,

When the wrangling bells had ended,

Slowly struck the clock eleven,

And, from out the silent heaven,

Silence on the town descended.

Silence, silence everywhere,

On the earth and in the air,

Save that footsteps here and there

Of some burgher home returning,

By the street lamps faintly burning,

For a moment woke the echoes

Of the ancient town of Bruges.

But amid my broken slumbers

Still I heard those magic numbers,

As they loud proclaimed the flight

And stolen marches of the night;

Till their chimes in sweet collision

Mingled with each wandering vision,

Mingled with the fortune-telling

Gypsy-bands of dreams and fancies,

Which amid the waste expanses

Of the silent land of trances

Have their solitary dwelling;

All else seemed asleep in Bruges,

In the quaint old Flemish city.

And I thought how like these chimes

Are the poet's airy rhymes,

All his rhymes and roundelays,

His conceits, and songs, and ditties,

From the belfry of his brain,

Scattered downward, though in vain,

On the roofs and stones of cities!

For by night the drowsy ear

Under its curtains cannot hear,

And by day men go their ways,

Hearing the music as they pass,

But deeming it no more, alas!

Than the hollow sound of brass.

Yet perchance a sleepless wight,

Lodging at some humble inn

In the narrow lanes of life,

When the dusk and hush of night

Shut out the incessant din

Of daylight and its toil and strife,

May listen with a calm delight

To the poet's melodies,

Till he hears, or dreams he hears,

Intermingled with the song,

Thoughts that he has cherished long;

Hears amid the chime and singing

The bells of his own village ringing,

And wakes, and finds his slumberous eyes

Wet with most delicious tears.

Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay

In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Ble,

Listening with a wild delight

To the chimes that, through the night

Bang their changes from the Belfry

Of that quaint old Flemish city.

THE BELFRY OF BRUGES

In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown;

Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the

town.

As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood,

And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of widowhood.

Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and vapors gray,

Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the landscape lay.

At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, here and there,

Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascending, vanished, ghost-like, into air.

Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning hour,

But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient tower.

From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swallows wild and high;

And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more distant than the sky.

Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the olden times,

With their strange, unearthly changes rang the melancholy chimes,

Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sing in the choir;

And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a friar.

Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain;

They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again;

All the Foresters of Flanders,--mighty Baldwin Bras de Fer,

Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy Philip, Guy de Dampierre.

I beheld the pageants splendid that adorned those days of old;

Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who bore the Fleece of Gold

Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden argosies;

Ministers from twenty nations; more than royal pomp and ease.

I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground;

I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk and hound;

And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept with the queen,

And the armed guard around them, and the sword unsheathed between.

I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold,

Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold;

Saw the light at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving west,

Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon's nest.

And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote;

And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin's throat;

Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dike of sand,

"I am Roland! I am Roland! there is victory in the land!"

Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city's roar

Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once more.

Hours had passed away like minutes; and, before I was aware,

Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined square.

A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE

This is the place. Stand still, my steed,

Let me review the scene,

And summon from the shadowy Past

The forms that once have been.

The Past and Present here unite

Beneath Time's flowing tide,

Like footprints hidden by a brook,

But seen on either side.

Here runs the highway to the town;

There the green lane descends,

Through which I walked to church with thee,

O gentlest of my friends!

The shadow of the linden-trees

Lay moving on the grass;

Between them and the moving boughs,

A shadow, thou didst pass.

Thy dress was like the lilies,

And thy heart as pure as they:

One of God's holy messengers

Did walk with me that day.

I saw the branches of the trees

Bend down thy touch to meet,

The clover-blossoms in the grass

Rise up to kiss thy feet,

"Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares,

Of earth and folly born!"

Solemnly sang the village choir

On that sweet Sabbath morn.

Through the closed blinds the golden sun

Poured in a dusty beam,

Like the celestial ladder seen

By Jacob in his dream.

And ever and anon, the wind,

Sweet-scented with the hay,

Turned o'er the hymn-book's fluttering leaves

That on the window lay.

Long was the good man's sermon,

Yet it seemed not so to me;

For he spake of Ruth the beautiful,

And still I thought of thee.

Long was the prayer he uttered,

Yet it seemed not so to me;

For in my heart I prayed with him,

And still I thought of thee.

But now, alas! the place seems changed;

Thou art no longer here:

Part of the sunshine of the scene

With thee did disappear.

Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart,

Like pine-trees dark and high,

Subdue the light of noon, and breathe

A low and ceaseless sigh;

This memory brightens o'er the past,

As when the sun, concealed

Behind some cloud that near us hangs

Shines on a distant field.

THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,

Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;

But front their silent pipes no anthem pealing

Startles the villages with strange alarms.

Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary,

When the death-angel touches those swift keys

What loud lament and dismal Miserere

Will mingle with their awful symphonies

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus,

The cries of agony, the endless groan,

Which, through the ages that have gone before us,

In long reverberations reach our own.

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer,

Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song,

And loud, amid the universal clamor,

O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace

Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din,

And Aztec priests upon their teocallis

Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin;

The tumult of each sacked and burning village;

The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns;

The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage;

The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,

The rattling musketry, the clashing blade;

And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,

The diapason of the cannonade.

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,

With such accursed instruments as these,

Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices,

And jarrest the celestial harmonies?

Were half the power, that fills the world with terror,

Were half the wealth, bestowed on camps and courts,

Given to redeem the human mind from error,

There were no need of arsenals or forts:

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred!

And every nation, that should lift again

Its hand against a brother, on its forehead

Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain!

Down the dark future, through long generations,

The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease;

And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,

I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!"

Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals

The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies!

But beautiful as songs of the immortals,

The holy melodies of love arise.

NUREMBERG

In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands

Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands.

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song,

Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng:

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold,

Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old;

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme,

That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime.

In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron hand,

Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde's hand;

On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days

Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian's praise.

Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art:

Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart;

And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone,

By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own.

In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust,

And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust;

In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare,

Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air.

Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart,

Lived and labored Albrecht Durer, the Evangelist of Art;

Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand,

Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land.

Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies;

Dead he is not, but departed,--for the artist never dies.

Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair,

That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air!

Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and dismal lanes,

Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude poetic strains.

From remote and sunless suburbs came they to the friendly guild,

Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the swallows build.

As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme,

And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil's chime;

Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom

In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom.

Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft,

Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laughed.

But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor,

And a garland in the window, and his face above the door;

Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman's song,

As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great beard white and long.

And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care,

Quaffing ale from pewter tankard; in the master's antique chair.

Vanished is the ancient splendor, and before my dreamy eye

Wave these mingled shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry.

Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's regard;

But thy painter, Albrecht Durer, and Hans Sachs thy cobbler-bard.

Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away,

As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought his careless lay:

Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of the soil,

The nobility of labor,--the long pedigree of toil.

THE NORMAN BARON

Dans les moments de la vie ou la reflexion devient plus calme

et plus profonde, ou l'interet et l'avarice parlent moins haut

que la raison, dans les instants de chagrin domestique, de

maladie, et de peril de mort, les nobles se repentirent de

posseder des serfs, comme d'une chose peu agreable a Dieu, qui

avait cree tous les hommes a son image.--THIERRY, Conquete de

l'Angleterre.

In his chamber, weak and dying,

Was the Norman baron lying;

Loud, without, the tempest thundered

And the castle-turret shook,

In this fight was Death the gainer,

Spite of vassal and retainer,

And the lands his sires had plundered,

Written in the Doomsday Book.

By his bed a monk was seated,

Who in humble voice repeated

Many a prayer and pater-noster,

From the missal on his knee;

And, amid the tempest pealing,

Sounds of bells came faintly stealing,

Bells, that from the neighboring kloster

Rang for the Nativity.

In the hall, the serf and vassal

Held, that night their Christmas wassail;

Many a carol, old and saintly,

Sang the minstrels and the waits;

And so loud these Saxon gleemen

Sang to slaves the songs of freemen,

That the storm was heard but faintly,

Knocking at the castle-gates.

Till at length the lays they chanted

Reached the chamber terror-haunted,

Where the monk, with accents holy,

Whispered at the baron's ear.

Tears upon his eyelids glistened,

As he paused awhile and listened,

And the dying baron slowly

Turned his weary head to hear.

"Wassail for the kingly stranger

Born and cradled in a manger!

King, like David, priest, like Aaron,

Christ is born to set us free!"

And the lightning showed the sainted

Figures on the casement painted,

And exclaimed the shuddering baron,

"Miserere, Domine!"

In that hour of deep contrition

He beheld, with clearer vision,

Through all outward show and fashion,

Justice, the Avenger, rise.

All the pomp of earth had vanished,

Falsehood and deceit were banished,

Reason spake more loud than passion,

And the truth wore no disguise.

Every vassal of his banner,

Every serf born to his manor,

All those wronged and wretched creatures,

By his hand were freed again.

And, as on the sacred missal

He recorded their dismissal,

Death relaxed his iron features,

And the monk replied, "Amen!"

Many centuries have been numbered

Since in death the baron slumbered

By the convent's sculptured portal,

Mingling with the common dust:

But the good deed, through the ages

Living in historic pages,

Brighter grows and gleams immortal,

Unconsumed by moth or rust

RAIN IN SUMMER

How beautiful is the rain!

After the dust and heat,

In the broad and fiery street,

In the narrow lane,

How beautiful is the rain!

How it clatters along the roofs,

Like the tramp of hoofs

How it gushes and struggles out

From the throat of the overflowing spout!

Across the window-pane

It pours and pours;

And swift and wide,

With a muddy tide,

Like a river down the gutter roars

The rain, the welcome rain!

The sick man from his chamber looks

At the twisted brooks;

He can feel the cool

Breath of each little pool;

His fevered brain

Grows calm again,

And he breathes a blessing on the rain.

From the neighboring school

Come the boys,

With more than their wonted noise

And commotion;

And down the wet streets

Sail their mimic fleets,

Till the treacherous pool

Ingulfs them in its whirling

And turbulent ocean.

In the country, on every side,

Where far and wide,

Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide,

Stretches the plain,

To the dry grass and the drier grain

How welcome is the rain!

In the furrowed land

The toilsome and patient oxen stand;

Lifting the yoke encumbered head,

With their dilated nostrils spread,

They silently inhale

The clover-scented gale,

And the vapors that arise

From the well-watered and smoking soil.

For this rest in the furrow after toil

Their large and lustrous eyes

Seem to thank the Lord,

More than man's spoken word.

Near at hand,

From under the sheltering trees,

The farmer sees

His pastures, and his fields of grain,

As they bend their tops

To the numberless beating drops

Of the incessant rain.

He counts it as no sin

That he sees therein

Only his own thrift and gain.

These, and far more than these,

The Poet sees!

He can behold

Aquarius old

Walking the fenceless fields of air;

And from each ample fold

Of the clouds about him rolled

Scattering everywhere

The showery rain,

As the farmer scatters his grain.

He can behold

Things manifold

That have not yet been wholly told,--

Have not been wholly sung nor said.

For his thought, that never stops,

Follows the water-drops

Down to the graves of the dead,

Down through chasms and gulfs profound,

To the dreary fountain-head

Of lakes and rivers under ground;

And sees them, when the rain is done,

On the bridge of colors seven

Climbing up once more to heaven,

Opposite the setting sun.

Thus the Seer,

With vision clear,

Sees forms appear and disappear,

In the perpetual round of strange,

Mysterious change

From birth to death, from death to birth,

From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth;

Till glimpses more sublime

Of things, unseen before,

Unto his wondering eyes reveal

The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel

Turning forevermore

In the rapid and rushing river of Time.

TO A CHILD

Dear child! how radiant on thy mother's knee,

With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles,

Thou gazest at the painted tiles,

Whose figures grace,

With many a grotesque form and face.

The ancient chimney of thy nursery!

The lady with the gay macaw,

The dancing girl, the grave bashaw

With bearded lip and chin;

And, leaning idly o'er his gate,

Beneath the imperial fan of state,

The Chinese mandarin.

With what a look of proud command

Thou shakest in thy little hand

The coral rattle with its silver bells,

Making a merry tune!

Thousands of years in Indian seas

That coral grew, by slow degrees,

Until some deadly and wild monsoon

Dashed it on Coromandel's sand!

Those silver bells

Reposed of yore,

As shapeless ore,

Far down in the deep-sunken wells

Of darksome mines,

In some obscure and sunless place,

Beneath huge Chimborazo's base,

Or Potosi's o'erhanging pines

And thus for thee, O little child,

Through many a danger and escape,

The tall ships passed the stormy cape;

For thee in foreign lands remote,

Beneath a burning, tropic clime,

The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat,

Himself as swift and wild,

In falling, clutched the frail arbute,

The fibres of whose shallow root,

Uplifted from the soil, betrayed

The silver veins beneath it laid,

The buried treasures of the miser, Time.

But, lo! thy door is left ajar!

Thou hearest footsteps from afar!

And, at the sound,

Thou turnest round

With quick and questioning eyes,

Like one, who, in a foreign land,

Beholds on every hand

Some source of wonder and surprise!

And, restlessly, impatiently,

Thou strivest, strugglest, to be free,

The four walls of thy nursery

Are now like prison walls to thee.

No more thy mother's smiles,

No more the painted tiles,

Delight thee, nor the playthings on the floor,

That won thy little, beating heart before;

Thou strugglest for the open door.

Through these once solitary halls

Thy pattering footstep falls.

The sound of thy merry voice

Makes the old walls

Jubilant, and they rejoice

With the joy of thy young heart,

O'er the light of whose gladness

No shadows of sadness

From the sombre background of memory start.

Once, ah, once, within these walls,

One whom memory oft recalls,

The Father of his Country, dwelt.

And yonder meadows broad and damp

The fires of the besieging camp

Encircled with a burning belt.

Up and down these echoing stairs,

Heavy with the weight of cares,

Sounded his majestic tread;

Yes, within this very room

Sat he in those hours of gloom,

Weary both in heart and head.

But what are these grave thoughts to thee?

Out, out! into the open air!

Thy only dream is liberty,

Thou carest little how or where.

I see thee eager at thy play,

Now shouting to the apples on the tree,

With cheeks as round and red as they;

And now among the yellow stalks,

Among the flowering shrubs and plants,

As restless as the bee.

Along the garden walks,

The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels I trace;

And see at every turn how they efface

Whole villages of sand-roofed tents,

That rise like golden domes

Above the cavernous and secret homes

Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants.

Ah, cruel little Tamerlane,

Who, with thy dreadful reign,

Dost persecute and overwhelm

These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm!

What! tired already! with those suppliant looks,

And voice more beautiful than a poet's books,

Or murmuring sound of water as it flows.

Thou comest back to parley with repose;

This rustic seat in the old apple-tree,

With its o'erhanging golden canopy

Of leaves illuminate with autumnal hues,

And shining with the argent light of dews,

Shall for a season be our place of rest.

Beneath us, like an oriole's pendent nest,

From which the laughing birds have taken wing,

By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant swing.

Dream-like the waters of the river gleam;

A sailless vessel drops adown the stream,

And like it, to a sea as wide and deep,

Thou driftest gently down the tides of sleep.

O child! O new-born denizen

Of life's great city! on thy head

The glory of the morn is shed,

Like a celestial benison!

Here at the portal thou dost stand,

And with thy little hand

Thou openest the mysterious gate

Into the future's undiscovered land.

I see its valves expand,

As at the touch of Fate!

Into those realms of love and hate,

Into that darkness blank and drear,

By some prophetic feeling taught,

I launch the bold, adventurous thought,

Freighted with hope and fear;

As upon subterranean streams,

In caverns unexplored and dark,

Men sometimes launch a fragile bark,

Laden with flickering fire,

And watch its swift-receding beams,

Until at length they disappear,

And in the distant dark expire.

By what astrology of fear or hope

Dare I to cast thy horoscope!

Like the new moon thy life appears;

A little strip of silver light,

And widening outward into night

The shadowy disk of future years;

And yet upon its outer rim,

A luminous circle, faint and dim,

And scarcely visible to us here,

Rounds and completes the perfect sphere;

A prophecy and intimation,

A pale and feeble adumbration,

Of the great world of light, that lies

Behind all human destinies.

Ah! if thy fate, with anguish fraught,

Should be to wet the dusty soil

With the hot tears and sweat of toil,--

To struggle with imperious thought,

Until the overburdened brain,

Weary with labor, faint with pain,

Like a jarred pendulum, retain

Only its motion, not its power,--

Remember, in that perilous hour,

When most afflicted and oppressed,

From labor there shall come forth rest.

And if a more auspicious fate

On thy advancing steps await

Still let it ever be thy pride

To linger by the laborer's side;

With words of sympathy or song

To cheer the dreary march along

Of the great army of the poor,

O'er desert sand, o'er dangerous moor.

Nor to thyself the task shall be

Without reward; for thou shalt learn

The wisdom early to discern

True beauty in utility;

As great Pythagoras of yore,

Standing beside the blacksmith's door,

And hearing the hammers, as they smote

The anvils with a different note,

Stole from the varying tones, that hung

Vibrant on every iron tongue,

The secret of the sounding wire.

And formed the seven-chorded lyre.

Enough! I will not play the Seer;

I will no longer strive to ope

The mystic volume, where appear

The herald Hope, forerunning Fear,

And Fear, the pursuivant of Hope.

Thy destiny remains untold;

For, like Acestes' shaft of old,

The swift thought kindles as it flies,

And burns to ashes in the skies.

THE OCCULTATION OF ORION

I saw, as in a dream sublime,

The balance in the hand of Time.

O'er East and West its beam impended;

And day, with all its hours of light,

Was slowly sinking out of sight,

While, opposite, the scale of night

Silently with the stars ascended.

Like the astrologers of eld,

In that bright vision I beheld

Greater and deeper mysteries.

I saw, with its celestial keys,

Its chords of air, its frets of fire,

The Samian's great Aeolian lyre,

Rising through all its sevenfold bars,

From earth unto the fixed stars.

And through the dewy atmosphere,

Not only could I see, but hear,

Its wondrous and harmonious strings,

In sweet vibration, sphere by sphere,

From Dian's circle light and near,

Onward to vaster and wider rings.

Where, chanting through his beard of snows,

Majestic, mournful, Saturn goes,

And down the sunless realms of space

Reverberates the thunder of his bass.

Beneath the sky's triumphal arch

This music sounded like a march,

And with its chorus seemed to be

Preluding some great tragedy.

Sirius was rising in the east;

And, slow ascending one by one,

The kindling constellations shone.

Begirt with many a blazing star,

Stood the great giant Algebar,

Orion, hunter of the beast!

His sword hung gleaming by his side,

And, on his arm, the lion's hide

Scattered across the midnight air

The golden radiance of its hair.

The moon was pallid, but not faint;

And beautiful as some fair saint,

Serenely moving on her way

In hours of trial and dismay.

As if she heard the voice of God,

Unharmed with naked feet she trod

Upon the hot and burning stars,

As on the glowing coals and bars,

That were to prove her strength, and try

Her holiness and her purity.

Thus moving on, with silent pace,

And triumph in her sweet, pale face,

She reached the station of Orion.

Aghast he stood in strange alarm!

And suddenly from his outstretched arm

Down fell the red skin of the lion

Into the river at his feet.

His mighty club no longer beat

The forehead of the bull; but he

Reeled as of yore beside the sea,

When, blinded by Oenopion,

He sought the blacksmith at his forge,

And, climbing up the mountain gorge,

Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun.

Then, through the silence overhead,

An angel with a trumpet said,

"Forevermore, forevermore,

The reign of violence is o'er!"

And, like an instrument that flings

Its music on another's strings,

The trumpet of the angel cast

Upon the heavenly lyre its blast,

And on from sphere to sphere the words

Re-echoed down the burning chords,--

"Forevermore, forevermore,

The reign of violence is o'er!"

THE BRIDGE

I stood on the bridge at midnight,

As the clocks were striking the hour,

And the moon rose o'er the city,

Behind the dark church-tower.

I saw her bright reflection

In the waters under me,

Like a golden goblet falling

And sinking into the sea.

And far in the hazy distance

Of that lovely night in June,

The blaze of the flaming furnace

Gleamed redder than the moon.

Among the long, black rafters

The wavering shadows lay,

And the current that came from the ocean

Seemed to lift and bear them away;

As, sweeping and eddying through them,

Rose the belated tide,

And, streaming into the moonlight,

The seaweed floated wide.

And like those waters rushing

Among the wooden piers,

A flood of thoughts came o'er me

That filled my eyes with tears.

How often, oh, how often,

In the days that had gone by,

I had stood on that bridge at midnight

And gazed on that wave and sky!

How often, oh, how often,

I had wished that the ebbing tide

Would bear me away on its bosom

O'er the ocean wild and wide!

For my heart was hot and restless,

And my life was full of care,

And the burden laid upon me

Seemed greater than I could bear.

But now it has fallen from me,

It is buried in the sea;

And only the sorrow of others

Throws its shadow over me.

Yet whenever I cross the river

On its bridge with wooden piers,

Like the odor of brine from the ocean

Comes the thought of other years.

And I think how many thousands

Of care-encumbered men,

Each bearing his burden of sorrow,

Have crossed the bridge since then.

I see the long procession

Still passing to and fro,

The young heart hot and restless,

And the old subdued and slow!

And forever and forever,

As long as the river flows,

As long as the heart has passions,

As long as life has woes;

The moon and its broken reflection

And its shadows shall appear,

As the symbol of love in heaven,

And its wavering image here.

TO THE DRIVING CLOUD

Gloomy and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty Omahas;

Gloomy and dark as the driving cloud, whose name thou hast taken!

Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through the city's

Narrow and populous streets, as once by the margin of rivers

Stalked those birds unknown, that have left us only their footprints.

What, in a few short years, will remain of thy race but the footprints?

How canst thou walk these streets, who hast trod the green turf of the prairies!

How canst thou breathe this air, who hast breathed the sweet air of the mountains!

Ah! 't is in vain that with lordly looks of disdain thou dost challenge

Looks of disdain in return, and question these walls and these pavements,

Claiming the soil for thy hunting-grounds, while down-trodden millions

Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its caverns that they, too,

Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim its division!

Back, then, back to thy woods in the regions west of the Wabash!

There as a monarch thou reignest. In autumn the leaves of the maple

Pave the floors of thy palace-halls with gold, and in summer

Pine-trees waft through its chambers the odorous breath of their branches.

There thou art strong and great, a hero, a tamer of horses!

There thou chasest the stately stag on the banks of the Elkhorn,

Or by the roar of the Running-Water, or where the Omaha

Calls thee, and leaps through the wild ravine like a brave of the

Blackfeet!

Hark! what murmurs arise from the heart of those mountainous deserts?

Is it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the mighty Behemoth,

Who, unharmed, on his tusks once caught the bolts of the thunder,

And now lurks in his lair to destroy the race of the red man?

Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the Crows and the Foxes,

Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the tread of Behemoth,

Lo! the big thunder-canoe, that steadily breasts the Missouri's

Merciless current! and yonder, afar on the prairies, the camp-fires

Gleam through the night; and the cloud of dust in the gray of the daybreak

Marks not the buffalo's track, nor the Mandan's dexterous horse-race;

It is a caravan, whitening the desert where dwell the Camanches!

Ha! how the breath of these Saxons and Celts, like the blast of the east-wind,

Drifts evermore to the west the scanty smokes of thy wigwams!

SONGS

THE DAY IS DONE

The day is done, and the darkness

Falls from the wings of Night,

As a feather is wafted downward

From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist,

And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me

That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,

That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,

Some simple and heartfelt lay,

That shall soothe this restless feeling,

And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,

Not from the bards sublime,

Whose distant footsteps echo

Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,

Their mighty thoughts suggest

Life's endless toil and endeavor;

And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart,

As showers from the clouds of summer,

Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,

And nights devoid of ease,

Still heard in his soul the music

Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet

The restless pulse of care,

And come like the benediction

That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume

The poem of thy choice,

And lend to the rhyme of the poet

The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music

And the cares, that infest the day,

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,

And as silently steal away.

AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY

The day is ending,

The night is descending;

The marsh is frozen,

The river dead.

Through clouds like ashes

The red sun flashes

On village windows

That glimmer red.

The snow recommences;

The buried fences

Mark no longer

The road o'er the plain;

While through the meadows,

Like fearful shadows,

Slowly passes

A funeral train.

The bell is pealing,

And every feeling

Within me responds

To the dismal knell;

Shadows are trailing,

My heart is bewailing

And tolling within

Like a funeral bell.

TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK

Welcome, my old friend,

Welcome to a foreign fireside,

While the sullen gales of autumn

Shake the windows.

The ungrateful world

Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee,

Since, beneath the skies of Denmark,

First I met thee.

There are marks of age,

There are thumb-marks on thy margin,

Made by hands that clasped thee rudely,

At the alehouse.

Soiled and dull thou art;

Yellow are thy time-worn pages,

As the russet, rain-molested

Leaves of autumn.

Thou art stained with wine

Scattered from hilarious goblets,

As the leaves with the libations

Of Olympus.

Yet dost thou recall

Days departed, half-forgotten,

When in dreamy youth I wandered

By the Baltic,--

When I paused to hear

The old ballad of King Christian

Shouted from suburban taverns

In the twilight.

Thou recallest bards,

Who in solitary chambers,

And with hearts by passion wasted,

Wrote thy pages.

Thou recallest homes

Where thy songs of love and friendship

Made the gloomy Northern winter

Bright as summer.

Once some ancient Scald,

In his bleak, ancestral Iceland,

Chanted staves of these old ballads

To the Vikings.

Once in Elsinore,

At the court of old King Hamlet

Yorick and his boon companions

Sang these ditties.

Once Prince Frederick's Guard

Sang them in their smoky barracks;--

Suddenly the English cannon

Joined the chorus!

Peasants in the field,

Sailors on the roaring ocean,

Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics,

All have sung them.

Thou hast been their friend;

They, alas! have left thee friendless!

Yet at least by one warm fireside

Art thou welcome.

And, as swallows build

In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys,

So thy twittering songs shall nestle

In my bosom,--

Quiet, close, and warm,

Sheltered from all molestation,

And recalling by their voices

Youth and travel.

WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID

Vogelweid the Minnesinger,

When he left this world of ours,

Laid his body in the cloister,

Under Wurtzburg's minster towers.

And he gave the monks his treasures,

Gave them all with this behest:

They should feed the birds at noontide

Daily on his place of rest;

Saying, "From these wandering minstrels

I have learned the art of song;

Let me now repay the lessons

They have taught so well and long."

Thus the bard of love departed;

And, fulfilling his desire,

On his tomb the birds were feasted

By the children of the choir.

Day by day, o'er tower and turret,

In foul weather and in fair,

Day by day, in vaster numbers,

Flocked the poets of the air.

On the tree whose heavy branches

Overshadowed all the place,

On the pavement, on the tombstone,

On the poet's sculptured face,

On the cross-bars of each window,

On the lintel of each door,

They renewed the War of Wartburg,

Which the bard had fought before.

There they sang their merry carols,

Sang their lauds on every side;

And the name their voices uttered

Was the name of Vogelweid.

Till at length the portly abbot

Murmured, "Why this waste of food?

Be it changed to loaves henceforward

For our tasting brotherhood."

Then in vain o'er tower and turret,

From the walls and woodland nests,

When the minster bells rang noontide,

Gathered the unwelcome guests.

Then in vain, with cries discordant,

Clamorous round the Gothic spire,

Screamed the feathered Minnesingers

For the children of the choir.

Time has long effaced the inscriptions

On the cloister's funeral stones,

And tradition only tells us

Where repose the poet's bones.

But around the vast cathedral,

By sweet echoes multiplied,

Still the birds repeat the legend,

And the name of Vogelweid.

DRINKING SONG

INSCRIPTION FOR AN ANTIQUE PITCHER

Come, old friend! sit down and listen!

From the pitcher, placed between us,

How the waters laugh and glisten

In the head of old Silenus!

Old Silenus, bloated, drunken,

Led by his inebriate Satyrs;

On his breast his head is sunken,

Vacantly he leers and chatters.

Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow;

Ivy crowns that brow supernal

As the forehead of Apollo,

And possessing youth eternal.

Round about him, fair Bacchantes,

Bearing cymbals, flutes, and thyrses,

Wild from Naxian groves, or Zante's

Vineyards, sing delirious verses.

Thus he won, through all the nations,

Bloodless victories, and the farmer

Bore, as trophies and oblations,

Vines for banners, ploughs for armor.

Judged by no o'erzealous rigor,

Much this mystic throng expresses:

Bacchus was the type of vigor,

And Silenus of excesses.

These are ancient ethnic revels,

Of a faith long since forsaken;

Now the Satyrs, changed to devils,

Frighten mortals wine-o'ertaken.

Now to rivulets from the mountains

Point the rods of fortune-tellers;

Youth perpetual dwells in fountains,--

Not in flasks, and casks, and cellars.

Claudius, though he sang of flagons

And huge tankards filled with Rhenish,

From that fiery blood of dragons

Never would his own replenish.

Even Redi, though he chaunted

Bacchus in the Tuscan valleys,

Never drank the wine he vaunted

In his dithyrambic sallies.

Then with water fill the pitcher

Wreathed about with classic fables;

Ne'er Falernian threw a richer

Light upon Lucullus' tables.

Come, old friend, sit down and listen

As it passes thus between us,

How its wavelets laugh and glisten

In the head of old Silenus!

THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS

L'eternite est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit sans

cesse ces deux mots seulement dans le silence des tombeaux:

"Toujours! jamais! Jamais! toujours!"--JACQUES BRIDAINE.

Somewhat back from the village street

Stands the old-fashioned country-seat.

Across its antique portico

Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw;

And from its station in the hall

An ancient timepiece says to all,--

"Forever--never!

Never--forever!"

Half-way up the stairs it stands,

And points and beckons with its hands

From its case of massive oak,

Like a monk, who, under his cloak,

Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!

With sorrowful voice to all who pass,--

"Forever--never!

Never--forever!"

By day its voice is low and light;

But in the silent dead of night,

Distinct as a passing footstep's fall,

It echoes along the vacant hall,

Along the ceiling, along the floor,

And seems to say, at each chamber-door,--

"Forever--never!

Never--forever!"

Through days of sorrow and of mirth,

Through days of death and days of birth,

Through every swift vicissitude

Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood,

And as if, like God, it all things saw,

It calmly repeats those words of awe,--

"Forever--never!

Never--forever!"

In that mansion used to be

Free-hearted Hospitality;

His great fires up the chimney roared;

The stranger feasted at his board;

But, like the skeleton at the feast,

That warning timepiece never ceased,--

"Forever--never!

Never--forever!"

There groups of merry children played,

There youths and maidens dreaming strayed;

O precious hours! O golden prime,

And affluence of love and time!

Even as a Miser counts his gold,

Those hours the ancient timepiece told,--

"Forever--never!

Never--forever!"

From that chamber, clothed in white,

The bride came forth on her wedding night;

There, in that silent room below,

The dead lay in his shroud of snow;

And in the hush that followed the prayer,

Was heard the old clock on the stair,--

"Forever--never!

Never--forever!"

All are scattered now and fled,

Some are married, some are dead;

And when I ask, with throbs of pain.

"Ah! when shall they all meet again?"

As in the days long since gone by,

The ancient timepiece makes reply,--

"Forever--never!

Never--forever!"

Never here, forever there,

Where all parting, pain, and care,

And death, and time shall disappear,--

Forever there, but never here!

The horologe of Eternity

Sayeth this incessantly,--

"Forever--never!

Never--forever!"

THE ARROW AND THE SONG

I shot an arrow into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where;

For, so swiftly it flew, the sight

Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where;

For who has sight so keen and strong,

That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak

I found the arrow, still unbroke;

And the song, from beginning to end,

I found again in the heart of a friend.

SONNETS

MEZZO CAMMIN

Half of my life is gone, and I have let

The years slip from me and have not fulfilled

The aspiration of my youth, to build

Some tower of song with lofty parapet.

Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor the fret

Of restless passions chat would not be stilled,

But sorrow, and a care that almost killed,

Kept me from what I may accomplish yet;

Though, half way up the hill, I see the Past

Lying beneath me with its sounds and sights,--

A city in the twilight dim and vast,

With smoking roofs, soft bells, and gleaming lights.--

And hear above me on the autumnal blast

The cataract of Death far thundering from the heights.

THE EVENING STAR

Lo! in the painted oriel of the West,

Whose panes the sunken sun incarnadines,

Like a fair lady at her casement, shines

The evening star, the star of love and rest!

And then anon she doth herself divest

Of all her radiant garments, and reclines

Behind the sombre screen of yonder pines,

With slumber and soft dreams of love oppressed.

O my beloved, my sweet Hesperus!

My morning and my evening star of love!

My best and gentlest lady! even thus,

As that fair planet in the sky above,

Dost thou retire unto thy rest at night,

And from thy darkened window fades the light.

AUTUMN

Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain,

With banners, by great gales incessant fanned,

Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand,

And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain!

Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne,

Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand

Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land,

Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain!

Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended

So long beneath the heaven's o'er-hanging eaves;

Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended;

Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves;

And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid,

Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves!

DANTE

Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom,

With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes,

Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise,

Like Farinata from his fiery tomb.

Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom;

Yet in thy heart what human sympathies,

What soft compassion glows, as in the skies

The tender stars their clouded lamps relume!

Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks,

By Fra Hilario in his diocese,

As up the convent-walls, in golden streaks,

The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease;

And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks,

Thy voice along the cloister whispers, "Peace!"

CURFEW

I.

Solemnly, mournfully,

Dealing its dole,

The Curfew Bell

Is beginning to toll.

Cover the embers,

And put out the light;

Toil comes with the morning,

And rest with the night.

Dark grow the windows,

And quenched is the fire;

Sound fades into silence,--

All footsteps retire.

No voice in the chambers,

No sound in the hall!

Sleep and oblivion

Reign over all!

II.

The book is completed,

And closed, like the day;

And the hand that has written it

Lays it away.

Dim grow its fancies;

Forgotten they lie;

Like coals in the ashes,

They darken and die.

Song sinks into silence,

The story is told,

The windows are darkened,

The hearth-stone is cold.

Darker and darker

The black shadows fall;

Sleep and oblivion

Reign over all.

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

EVANGELINE

A TALE OF ACADIE

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,

Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,

Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,

Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.

Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean

Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it

Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman

Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,--

Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,

Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?

Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!

Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October

Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean

Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre.

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,

Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,

List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;

List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.

PART THE FIRST

I

In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,

Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pre

Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward,

Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number.

Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant,

Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates

Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows.

West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields

Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward

Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains

Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic

Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended

There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village.

Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of hemlock,

Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries.

Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projecting

Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway.

There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset

Lighted the village street and gilded the vanes on the chimneys,

Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles

Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden

Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors

Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidens,

Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children

Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them.

Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens,

Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome.

Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun sank

Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfry

Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village

Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending,

Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment.

Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers,--

Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free from

Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics.

Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows;

But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of their owners;

There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance.

Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas,

Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pre,

Dwelt on his goodly acres: and with him, directing his household,

Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village.

Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters;

Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes;

White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves.

Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.

Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside,

Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses!

Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows.

When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide

Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden,

Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret

Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop

Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,

Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal,

Wearing her Norman cap and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings,

Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom,

Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.

But a celestial brightness--a more ethereal beauty--

Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,

Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.

When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.

Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer

Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shady

Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it.

Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a footpath

Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow.

Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse,

Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the roadside,

Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary.

Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown

Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses.

Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the farm-yard,

There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the harrows;

There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in his feathered seraglio,

Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsame

Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter.

Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each one

Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase,

Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft.

There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates

Murmuring ever of love; while above in the variant breezes

Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation.

Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand-Pre

Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household.

Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his missal,

Fixed his eyes upon her as the saint of his deepest devotion;

Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment!

Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended,

And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps,

Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron;

Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village,

Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered

Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music.

But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome;

Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith,

Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored of all men;

For, since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations,

Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people.

Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from earliest childhood

Grew up together as brother and sister; and Father Felician,

Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters

Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the plain-song.

But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed,

Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith.

There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him

Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything,

Nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the tire of the cart-wheel

Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders.

Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness

Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and crevice,

Warm by the forge within they watched the laboring bellows,

And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes,

Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel.

Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle,

Down the hillside hounding, they glided away o'er the meadow.

Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters,

Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow

Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings;

Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow!

Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children.

He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning,

Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened thought into action.

She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman.

"Sunshine of Saint Eulalie" was she called; for that was the sunshine

Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples

She, too, would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance,

Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children.

II

Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer,

And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters.

Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound,

Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands,

Harvests were gathered in; and wild with the winds of September

Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel.

All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement.

Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honey

Till the hives overflowed; and the Indian bunters asserted

Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes.

Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful season,

Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints!

Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape

Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood.

Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean

Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended.

Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards,

Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons,

All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sun

Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him;

While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow,

Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forest

Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and

jewels.

Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness.

Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending

Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead.

Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other,

And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening.

Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer,

Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar,

Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection.

Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside,

Where was their favorite pasture. Behind them followed the watch-dog,

Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct,

Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly

Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers;

Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector,

When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves howled.

Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes,

Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor.

Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks,

While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles,

Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson,

Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms.

Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders

Unto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in regular cadence

Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended.

Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard,

Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness;

Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors,

Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent.

In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmer

Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreaths

Struggled together like foes in a burning city. Behind him,

Nodding and mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic,

Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness.

Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chair

Laughed in the flickering light, and the pewter plates on the dresser

Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine.

Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas,

Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him

Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards.

Close at her father's side was the gentle Evangeline seated,

Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the corner behind her.

Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle,

While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe,

Followed the old man's songs and united the fragments together.

As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases,

Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altar,

So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock clicked.

Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted,

Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges.

Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith,

And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him.

"Welcome!" the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the threshold.

"Welcome, Basil, my friend! Come, take thy place on the settle

Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee;

Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco;

Never so much thyself art thou as when through the curling

Smoke of the pipe or the forge thy friendly and jovial face gleams

Round and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes."

Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the blacksmith,

Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside:--

"Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad!

Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filled with

Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them.

Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe."

Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him,

And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued:--

"Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchors

Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against us.

What their design may be is unknown; but all are commanded

On the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's mandate

Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas! in the mean time

Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people."

Then made answer the farmer:--"Perhaps some friendlier purpose

Brings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in England

By untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted,

And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children."

"Not so thinketh the folk in the village," said, warmly, the blacksmith,

Shaking his head, as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he continued:--

"Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Sejour, nor Port Royal.

Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts,

Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow.

Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds;

Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of the mower."

Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer:--

"Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our cornfields,

Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean,

Than our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon.

Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrow

Fall on this house and hearth; for this is the night of the contract.

Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads of the village

Strongly have built them and well; and, breaking the glebe round about them,

Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth.

Rene Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkhorn.