PS sail .5 semi-monthly Number 63 September 5, 1894 L REVERE'S RIDE PO; UH i AND COM J iREET Easi .- . >e Bui; «£tje iii&ccsttv Csntftrt&gf - I, MttB»., ft* 80 £2£T MtM.JTMMii'l'MV Si , -,'v \ • '-i-uii. *aM&&$ift *.*.:;';-'.' . Single Numbers FIFTEEN CEN Double Numbers THIRTY CEN NTS i NTS } Yearly Subscript n. Among the 1 black i The wavering shad And the current that came from the in Seemed to lift and bear them av As, BW( ig and eddying throi m, R belated And, streaming into the moonlight, The ide. 1 The poem when published H I Th I "ige r the the river \ i^e fr- a. THE BRIDGE. 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. THE CUMBERLAND. 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. THE CUMBERLAND. At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war ; And at times from the fortress across the bay The alarum of drums swept past, Or a bugle blast From the camp on the shore. Then far away to the south uprose A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship l of our foes 1 The iron ship was the United States Frigate Merrimac cap- tured by the Confederates, plated with railroad iron, and renamed the Virginia, which on March 8, 18G2, came ont of Gosport to attack the Union vessels in Hampton Roads. The next day the Monitor ironclad came upon the BCene, and the two ironclads en- gaged each other. The whole character of naval warfare WM changed from that day. THE CUMBERLAND. 9 Was steadily steering its course To try the force Of our ribs of oak. Down upon us heavily runs, Silent and sullen, the floating fort ; Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, And leaps the terrible death, With fiery breath, From each open port. We are not idle, but send her straight Defiance back in a full broadside ! As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, Rebounds our heavier hail From each iron scale Of the monster's hide. " Strike your flag ! " the rebel cries, In his arrogant old plantation strain. " Never ! " our gallant Morris replies ; " It is better to sink than to yield ! * And the whole air pealed With the cheers of our men. Then, like a kraken huge and black, She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp ! Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, With a sudden shudder of death, And the cannon's breath For her dying gasp. Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Still floated our flag at the mainmast head. \ 10 CHRISTMAS BELLS. Lord, how beautiful was Thy day ! Every waft of the air Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead. Ho ! brave hearts that went down in the seas ! Ye are at peace in the troubled stream ; Ho ! brave land ! with hearts like these, Thy flag, that is rent in twain, Shall be one again, And without a seam ! CHRISTMAS BELLS. I iikard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! And thought how, as the day had come, The belfries of all Christendom I lad rolled along The unbroken song Of peace on earth, good-will to men! Till, ringing, singing on its way, The world revolved from night to day, A voice, a chime, A chant sublime Of peace on earth, good-will to men I KILLED AT THE FORD. 11 Then from each black, accursed mouth The cannon thundered in the South, 1 And with the sound The carols drowned Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! It was as if an earthquake rent The hearth-stones of a continent, And made forlorn The households born Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! And in despair I bowed my head ; " There is no peace on earth," I said ; " For hate is strong, And mocks the song Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! " Then pealed the bells more loud and deep : " God is not dead ; nor doth he sleep ! The Wrong shall fail, The Right prevail, With peace on earth, good- will to men ! " KILLED AT THE FORD. He is dead, the beautiful youth, The heart of honor, the tongue of truth, He, the life and light of us all, Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call, Whom all eyes followed with one consent, The cheer of whose laugh, and whose pleasant word, Hushed all murmurs of discontent. 1 The date of the poem explains this reference. 12 KILLED AT THE FORD. Only last night, as we rode along, Down the dark of the mountain gap, To visit the picket-guard at the ford, Little dreaming of any mishap, He was humming the words of some old song : " Two red roses he had on his cap And another he bore at the point of his sword." Sudden and swift a whistling ball Came out of a wood, and the voice was still ; . Something I heard in the darkness fall, And for a moment my blood grew chill ; I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks In a room where some one is lying dead ; But he made no answer to what I said. We lifted him up to his saddle again, And through the mire and the mist and the rain Carried him back to the silent camp, And laid him as if asleep on his bed ; And I saw by the light of the surgeon's lamp Two white roses upon his cheeks, And one, just over his heart, blood-red ! And I saw in a vision how far and fleet That fatal bullet went speeding forth, Till it reached a town in the distant North, Till it reached a house in a sunny street, Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat Without a murmur, without a cry ; And a bell was tolled, in that far-off town, For one who had passed from cross to crown, And the neighbors wondered that she should die. IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. 13 IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. No hay pajaros en los nidos de antano. 1 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 yon 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 ; 1 The translation of this Spanish proverb will be found in the last line of the poem. 14 RAIN IN SUMMER. For Time will teach thee soon the truth, There are no birds in last year's nest! KAIN 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, RAIN IN SUMMER. 15 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 16 RAIN IN SUMMER. 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, MY LOST YOUTH. 17 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. MY LOST YOUTH. Often I think of the beautiful town That is seated by the sea ; 1 Often in thought go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And my youth comes back to me. And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still : " A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 1 During one of his visits to Portland in 1846, Mr. Long- fellow relates how he took a long walk round Munjoy's hill and down to the old Fort Lawrence. " I lay down," he says, " in one of the embrasures and listened to the lashing, lulling sound of the sea just at my feet. It was a beautiful afternoon, and the harbor was full of white sails, coming and departing. Meditated a poem on the Old Fort." It does not appear that any poem was then written, but the theme remained, and in 1855, when in Cambridge, he notes in his diary, March 29 : "A day of pain ; cowering over the fire. At night, as I lie in bed, a poem comes into my mind, — a memory of Portland, - — my native town, the city by the sea." 18 MY LOST YOUTH. I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, And catch, in sudden gleams, The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, And islands that were the Hesperides Of all my boyish dreams. And the burden of that old song, It murmurs and whispers still : " A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the black wharves and the slips, And the sea-tides tossing free ; And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea. And the voice of that wayward song Is singing and saying still : " A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the bulwarks by the shore, And the fort upon the hill ; The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, And the bugle wild and shrill. And the music of that old son Stood Mistress Stavers in 1km- furbelows, Just as her cuckoo-clock was striking nine. Above her head, resplendent on tin aign, 1 This is another of the Tubs of a Wayside Inu. Ii is p poeti- cal rendering of an actual fact. LADY WENTWORTH. 29 The portrait of the Earl of Halifax, 1 In scarlet coat and periwig of flax, Surveyed at leisure all her varied charms, Her cap, her bodice, her white folded arms, And half resolved, though he was past his prime, And rather damaged by the lapse of time, To fall down at her feet, and to declare The passion that had driven him to despair. For from his lofty station he had seen Stavers, her husband, dressed in bottle-green, Drive his new Flying Stage-coach, four in hand, Down the long lane, and out into the land, And knew that he was far upon the way To Ipswich and to Boston on the Bay ! 2 Just then the meditations of the Earl Were interrupted by a little girl, Barefooted, ragged, with neglected hair, Eyes full of laughter, neck and shoulders bare, A thin slip of a girl, like a new moon, Sure to be rounded into beauty soon, 1 The inn bore the name of the Earl of Halifax. It was com- mon before the Revolution to name taverns after the king or some notable, and the Earl of Halifax was a prominent English states- man, who had been prime minister of George I. 2 Once a week the Flying Stage-coach was driven by John Stavers, the inn-keeper, from Portsmouth to Boston. " The car- riage," says Mr. T. B. Aldrich in his pleasant book, An Old Town by the Sea, " was a two-horse curricle, wide enough to accommodate three passengers. The fare was thirteen shillings and sixpence sterling per head. The curricle was presently superseded by a series of fat yellow coaches, one of which — nearly a century later, and long after that pleasant mode of travel had fallen obsolete — was the cause of much mental tribulation to the writer of this chronicle." Readers of The Story of a Bad Boy will guess to what Mr. Aldrich refers. 30 LADY WENTWORTH. A creature men would worship and ador. Though now in mean habiliments she bore A pail of water, dripping through the street. And bathing, as she went, her naked feet. It was a pretty picture, full of grace : — The slender form, the delicate, thin face ; The swaying motion, as she hurried bj The shining feet, the laughter in her e} That o'er her face in ripples gleamed and glanced. As in her pail the shifting sunbeam danced : And with uncommon feelings of delight The Earl of Halifax beheld the Bight. Not so Dame Stavers, for he heard her say These words, or thought he did, as plain as <1 i\ : "O Martha Hilton! Fie! how dare you About the town half dressed, and looking so ! ' At which the gypsy laughed, and straight replied "No matter how I look ; I yet shall ride In my own chariot, ma'am.' 1 And on the child The Earl of Halifax benignly smiled. As with her heavy burden she passed on. Looked back, then turned the corner, and was gone. What next, upon that memorable day, Arrested his attention was a gay And brilliant equipage, that flashed and spun. The silver harness glittering in the son. Outriders with red jackets, lithe and lank, Pounding the saddles as they rose and sank. While all alone within the chariot sal A portly person with three-cornered hat, A crimson velvet coat, head high in air. Gold-headed cane, and nicely powdered hair, LADY WENTWORTH. 31 And diamond buckles sparkling at his knees, Dignified, stately, florid, much at ease. Onward the pageant swept, and as it passed, Fair Mistress Stavers courtesied low and fast; For this was Governor Wentworth 1 driving down To Little Harbor, just beyond the town, Where his Great House stood looking out to sea, A goodly place, where it was good to be. It was a pleasant mansion, an abode Near and yet hidden from the great high-road, Sequestered among trees, a noble pile, Baronial and colonial in its style, Gables and dormer-windows everywhere, And stacks of chimneys rising high in air, — Pandaean pipes, on which all winds that blew Made mournful music the whole winter through. Within, unwonted splendors met *the eye, Panels, and floors of oak, and tapestry ; Carved chimney-pieces, where on brazen dogs Revelled and roared the Christmas fires of logs ; Doors opening into darkness unawares, Mysterious passages, and flights of stairs ; And on the walls, in heavy gilded frames, The ancestral Wentworths with Old-Scripture names. 2 Such was the mansion where the great n\an dwelt, A widower and childless ; and he felt 1 Governor JBenning Wentworth of New Hampshire. His Great House at Little Harbor is still standing, about a mile and a half below Portsmouth, and at this writing (1894) is owned and occupied by a son-in-law of Parkman the historian. 2 These family mementos were long ago removed, but some- thing of the old-time dignity remains to the house. One may still see in the passageway outside the old council-chamber, racks for the twelve muskets of the governor's guard. 32 LA*DY WENTWORTH. The loneliness, the uncongenial gloom. That like a presence haunted every room . For though not given to weakness, he could feel The pain of wounds, that ache because they heal. The years came and the years went. — n in all. And passed in cloud and sunshine o'er the Hall ; The dawns their splendor through its chambers shad, The sunsets flushed its western window 1 ; The snow was on its roofs, the wind, t tin: Its woodlands were in leaf and bare again ; Moons waxed and waned, the lilacs (doomed and died. In the broad river ebbed and flowed the tdd Ships went to sea, and ships came home Erom sea, And the slow years sailed by and ceased to be. And all these years had Martha Hilton served In the Great House, not wholly unobserved : By day, by night, the silver oresoent grei Though hidden by clouds, her light still shining through ; A maid of all work, whether oOttTSS or f i i n • , A servant who made service seem divine I ' Through her each room was fair to look upon ; The mirrors glistened, and the brasses shone, The very knocker on the outer door, If she but passed, was brighter than And now the ceaseless turning of the mill Of time, that never for an hour stands still, ^George Herbert, the port, has a v. •,•>,• in our of l,,s ,„ which reads 11 A Rorvant with this clause Makes dru Who sue- >v- Makes that anl th .v. tion fin. LADY WENTWORTH. 33 Ground out the Governor's sixtieth birthday, 1 And powdered his brown hair with silver-gray. The robin, the forerunner of the spring, The bluebird with his jocund carolling, The restless swallows building in the eaves, The golden buttercups, the grass, the leaves, The lilacs tossing in the winds of May, All welcomed this majestic holiday ! He gave a splendid banquet, served on plate, Such as became the Governor of the State, Who represented England and the King, And was magnificent in everything. He had invited all his friends and peers, — The Pepperels, the Langdons, and the Lears, The Sparhawks, the Penhallows, 2 and the rest ; For why repeat the name of every guest ? But I must mention one in bands and gown, The rector there, the Reverend Arthur Brown Of the Established Church ; with smiling face He sat beside the Governor and said grace ; And then the feast went on, as others do, But ended as none other I e'er knew. When they had drunk the King, with many a cheer, The Governor whispered in a servant's ear, Who disappeared, and presently there stood Within the room, in perfect womanhood, A maiden, modest and yet self-possessed, Youthful and beautiful, and simply dressed. Can this be Martha Hilton ? It must be ! Yes, Martha Hilton, and no other she ! 1 In point of fact, Governor Wentworth was born July 24, 1696, and his marriage was on March 15, 1730. 2 All Portsmouth names. 34 LADY WENTWORTR. Dowered with the beauty of her twenty years, How ladylike, how queenlike she appear- : The pale, thin crescent of the days gone by Is Dian now in all her majesty ! Yet scarce a guest perceived that she was the- Until the Governor, rising bom his chair. Played slightly with his ruffles, then Looked down. And said unto the Reverend Arthur Brown : "This is my birthday : it shall lik< wise I My wedding-day; and you >hall many DM The listening guests were greatly mystified, None more so than the rector, who replied : "Marry you? Yes, that n i pleasant task, Your Excellency : but to whom/ I ask The Governor answered : "To this lady here; 1 And beckoned Martha Hilton to draw near. She came and stood, all blushes, at his side. The rector paused. The impatient Governor eried : "This is the lady : do you hesitate Then I command you as Chief Magistral The rector read the service loud and clear: "Dearly beloved, we are gathered hen And so on to the end. At his oommand On the fourth finger of her fair let't hai The Governor placed the ring; and thai was all i Martha was Lady Wentworth of the EU1I MAD RIVER. 35 MAD RIVER. IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. TRAVELLER. Why dost thou wildly rush and roar, Mad River, Mad River ? 1 Wilt thou not pause and cease to pour Thy hurrying, headlong waters o'er This rocky shelf forever ? What secret trouble stirs thy breast ? Why all this fret and flurry ? Dost thou not know that what is best In this too restless world is rest From over- work and worry ? the river. What wouldst thou in these mountains seek, O stranger from the city ? Is it perhaps some foolish freak Of thine, to put the words I speak Into a plaintive ditty ? TRAVELLER. Yes ; I would learn of thee thy song, With all its flowing numbers, And in a voice as fresh and strong As thine is, sing it all day long, HAnd hear it in my slumbers. 1 There are doubtless more rivers than one of this name in the White Mountains, but there is one, at least, about which the poem might have been written, issuing from the woods behind Water- ville, and flowing into the Pemigewasset. 36 MAD RIVER. THE RIVER. A brooklet nameless and unknown Was I at first, resembling A little child, that all alone Comes venturing down the stairs of stone, Irresolute and trembling. Later, by wayward fancies led, For the wide world 1 panted : Out of the forest, dark and dread. Across the open fields I tied. Like one pursued and haunted. I tossed my arms, I sang aloud. My voice exultant blending With thunder from the passing cloud. The wind, the forest bent and bowed. The rush of rain descending I heard the distant ocean call, Imploring and entreating ; Drawn onward, o'er this rocky wall I plunged, and the loud waterfall Made answer to the ting. And now, beset with many ills, A toilsome life I follow : Compelled to carry from the hills These logs to the impatient mills Below there in the hollow. Yet something ever cheers and charms The rudeness of my labors : Daily I water with these arms THE BUILDERS. 37 The cattle of a hundred farms, And have the birds for neighbors. Men call me Mad, and well they may, When, full of rage and trouble, I burst my banks of sand and clay, And sweep their wooden bridge away, Like withered reeds or stubble. Now go and write thy little rhyme, As of thine own creating. Thou seest the day is past its prime ; I can no longer waste my time ; The mills are tired of waiting. THE BUILDERS. All are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time ; Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme. Nothing useless is, or low ; Each thing in its place is best ; And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest. For the structure that we raise, Time is with materials filled ; Our to-days and yesterdays Are the blocks with which we build. Truly shape and fashion these ; Leave no yawning gaps between ; 38 ANNIE OF THAR AW, Think not, because no man sees, Such things will remain unseen. In the elder days of Art, Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part : For the Gods see everywhere. Let us do our work as well, Both the unseen and the seen : Make the house, where Gods may dwell. Beautiful, entire, and clean. Else our lives are incomplete, Standing in these walls erf Tim. Broken stairways, where the feet Stumble as they seek to climb. Build to-day, then, strong and sine. With a firm and ample base ; And ascending and secure Shall to-morrow find its place. Thus alone can we attain To those turrets, where the eye Sees the world as one vast plain, And one boundless reach of sky. ANNIE OF Til A RAW. 1 Annie of Tharaw, my true love of <>1<1, She is my life, and mv goods, and my gold 1 Translated from the poem by Simon Dach. ANNIE OF THARAW. 39 Annie of Tharaw her heart once again To me has surrendered in joy and in pain. > Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good, Thou, my soul, my flesh, and my blood ! Then come the wild weather, come sleet or come snow, We will stand by each other, however it blow. Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain Shall be to our true love as links to the chain. As the palm-tree standeth so straight and so tall, The more the hail beats, and the more the rains fall, — So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and strong, Through crosses, through sorrows, through manifold wrong. Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone In a desolate land where the sun is scarce known, — Through forests I '11 follow, and where the sea flows, Through ice, and through iron, through armies of foes. Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun, The threads of our two lives are woven in one. Whate'er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed, Whatever forbidden thou hast not gainsaid. How in the turmoil of life can love stand, Where there is not one heart, and one mouth, and one hand ? 40 THE BELL OF ATRL Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and strifi Like a dog and a cat live such man and wit Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love j Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and mv dove. Whate'er my desire is, in thine may 1>< u : I am king of the household, and thou art its <|ii< It is this, O my Annie, my heart's >w I rot. That makes of us twain hut one Boul in one breast. This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell ; While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell. THE BELL OF A Tin. 1 At Atri in Abrozzo, 9 a small town Of ancient Roman date, but scanl renown, One of those little places thai have run Half up the hill, beneath a blazing ran, And then sat down to rest, Rfl if to "I climb no farther upward, come what may," — The Re Giovanni, 8 now unknown to fan* So many monaicha since have borne tin- name. Had a -rea t hell hnng in the market place. Beneath a roof, projecting Borne small -pace By way of shelter from the bus and rain. Then rode he through the streets with all hu train, 1 One of the Tali a Wn^ui, ..ppn.rd t<> U- mid by a Sicilian in the party. 2 Pronounced A h bri 8 Pronounced Rd GWvan the translation wti\ u- bond in the 18th line of the poem. THE BELL OF ATRL 41 And, with the blast of trumpets loud and long, Made proclamation, that whenever wrong Was done to any man, he should but ring The great bell in the square, and he, the King, Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon. Such was the proclamation of King John. How swift the happy days in Atri sped, What wrongs were righted, need not here be said. Suffice it that, as all things must decay, The hempen rope at length was worn away, Unravelled at the end, and, strand by strand, Loosened and wasted in the ringer's hand, Till one, who noted this in passing by, Mended the rope with braids of briony, So that the leaves and tendrils of the vine Hung like a votive garland at a shrine. By chance it happened that in Atri dwelt A knight, with spur on heel and sword in belt, Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the woods, Who loved his falcons with their crimson hoods, Who loved his hounds and horses, and all sports And prodigalities of camps and courts ; — Loved, or had loved them ; for at last, grown old, His only passion was the love of gold. He sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds, Rented his vineyards and his garden-grounds, Kept but one steed, his favorite steed of all, To starve and shiver in a naked stall, ^ And day by day sat brooding in his chair, Devising plans how best to hoard and spare. 42 THE BELL OF ATRI. At length he said : " What is the use or need To keep at my own cost this lazy steed. Eating his head off in my stables hei When rents are low and provender is dear? Let him go feed upon the public ways ; I want him only for the holiday-. So the old steed was turned into the heat Of the long, lonely, silent, skadeless streel ; And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn. Barked at by dogs, and torn by brier and thorn. One afternoon, as in that sultry clinic It is the custom in the summer time With bolted doors and window-shutters olosed, The inhabitants of Atri slept or dozed : When suddenly upon their senses Eel] The loud alarum of the accusing bell ! The Syndic started from his deep repose, Turned on his couch, and listened, and then rose And donned his robes, and with reluctant | Went panting forth into the market-place, Where the great bell upon its cross-beams bwud Reiterating with persistent tongut In half-articulate jargon, the old song : " Some one hath done a wrong, hath done a \\r« But ere he reached the belfry's light arcade He saw or thought he saw, beneath \t> shad No shape of human form of woman born, But a poor steed dejected and forlorn, Who with uplifted head and eager eve Was tugging at the vines of briony. " Domeneddio ! ? * cried the Syndic straight, 1 An Italian exclamation which may !><• translated, Good Lord ! THE BELL OF ATRL 43 " This is the Knight of Atri's steed of state ! He calls for justice, being sore distressed, And pleads his cause as loudly as the best." Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowd Had rolled together like a summer cloud, And told the story of the wretched beast In five-and-twenty different ways at least, With much gesticulation and appeal To heathen gods, in their excessive zeal. The Knight was called and questioned ; in reply Did not confess the fact, did not deny ; Treated the matter as a pleasant jest, And set at naught the Syndic and the rest, Maintaining, in an angry undertone, That he should do what pleased him with his own. And thereupon the Syndic gravely read The proclamation of the King ; then said : " Pride goeth forth on horseback grand and gay, But cometh back on foot, and begs its way ; Fame is the fragrance of heroic deeds, Of flowers of chivalry and not of weeds ! These are familiar proverbs ; but I fear They never yet have reached your knightly ear. What fair renown, what honor, what repute Can come to you from starving this poor brute ? He who serves well and speaks not, merits more Than they who clamor loudest at the door. Therefore the law decrees that as this steed Served you in youth, henceforth you shall take heed To comfort his old age, and to provide Shelter in stall, and food and field beside." 44 THE RETURN OF SPRING. The Knight withdrew abashed ; the people all Led home the steed in triumph to his stall. The King heard and approved, and laughed in glee, And cried aloud : u Right well it pleaseth me ! Church-bells at best but ring us to the door ; But go not in to mass ; my bell doth more : It cometh into court and pleads the cause Of creatures dumb and unknown to the laws ; And this shall make, in every Christian dim The Bell of Atri famous for all tiun THE BROOK AND THE WAVE. The brooklet came from the mountain, As sang the bard of old. Running with feet of silver Over the sands of gold ! Far away in the briny ocean There rolled a turbulent wave, Now singing along the Bea-beach, Now howling along the ra\ And the brooklet has found the billow, Though they flowed so far apart, And has filled with its freshness and sweetness That turbulent, bitter heart ! THE RETURN OF SPRING. 1 Now Time throws off his cloak again Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain, 1 Translated from the French of Chariot d'Ortoi THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 45 And clothes him in the embroidery Of glittering sun and clear blue sky. With beast and bird the forest rings, Each in his jargon cries or sings ; And Time throws off his cloak again Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain. River, and fount, and tinkling brook Wear in their dainty livery Drops of silver jewelry ; In new-made suit they merry look ; And Time throws off his cloak again Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain. 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 ; 46 THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 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 East and far The troubled army tied : Up rose the glorious morning star. The ghastly host was dead. I have read, in the marvellous heart of man. That strange and mystic BCroll, 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 shadow learn Portentous through the night. Upon its midnight battle-ground The spectra] oamp 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 wa And when the solemn and deep rhinvh hell Entreats the soul to prai , GASPAR BECERRA, 47 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. GASPAR BECERRA. 1 By his evening fire the artist Pondered o'er his secret shame ; Baffled, weary, and disheartened, Still he mused, and dreamed of fame. 'T. was an image of the Virgin That had tasked his utmost skill ; But, alas ! his fair ideal Vanished and escaped him still. From a distant Eastern island Had the precious wood been brought ; Day and night the anxious master At his toil untiring wrought ; Till, discouraged and desponding, Sat he now in shadows deep, And the day's humiliation Found oblivion in sleep. Then a voice cried, " Rise, O master ! From the burning brand of oak 1 Pronounced Becherra. 48 TO THE RIVER CHARLES. Shape the thought that stirs within thee ! And the startled artist woke, — Woke, and from the smoking embers Seized and quenched the glowing wood ; And therefrom he carved an image, And he saw that it was good. O thou sculptor, painter, poet ! Take this lesson to thy heart : That is best which lieth nearest : Shape from that thy work of art. TO THE RIVER CHARLES. River! that in silence winded Through the meadows, bright and free, Till at length thy rest thou iiiulest In the bosom of the sea I Four long years of mingled feeling Half in rest, and half in Btrife, I have seen thy waters stealing Onward, like the stream of life. 1 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, 1 The river Charles flows in view of tin- mansion in Cambridge which Mr. Longfellow began to ooonpy in the Bummer <»t TO THE RIVER CHARLES. 49 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, 1 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 hearthstone 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. 1 The three friends hinted at were Charles Sumner, Charles Folsom, and Charles Amory. 50 THREE FRIENDS OF MINE. THREE FRIENDS OF MINE. 1 I When I remember them, those friends of mine* Who are no longer here, the ooble rli Who half my life were more than friends to in< And whose discourse was like a generous win I most of all remember the divine Something, that shone in them, and made n> s» The archetypal man, and what might be The amplitude of Nature's first design. In vain I stretch my hands t<> clasp their hands I cannot find them. Nothing now La hit But a majestic memory. They meanwhile Wander together in Elysiao lands, Perchance remembering me, who am bereft Of their dear presence, and, remembering, -mil II In Attica thy birthplace Bhonld have been, Or the Ionian Isle-, <>r where the Encircle in their arms the ( lycladefl So wholly Greek wast thou in thy Berene And childlike joy of life, () Philhellen( ' Around thee would have swarmed the Attic bee Homer had been thy friend, or Socrati And Plato welcomed thee to his demesne. 1 These sonnets have to do with Cornelius Conway Pell once Professor of Greek, afterward President al Bai lege, Louis Agassiz and Charles Sumner. 'IT and and third sonnets were written at Nahant, where both Longfi [low and Agassiz had cottages. 2 Pronounced Sik'lacU 8 That is, a lover of Hellas, or ' THREE FRIENDS OF MINE. 51 For thee old legends breathed historic breath ; Thou sawest Poseidon in the purple sea, And in the sunset Jason's fleece of gold ! Oh, what hadst thou to do with cruel Death, Who wast so full of life, or Death with thee, That thou shouldst die before thou hadst grown old ! in I stand again on the familiar shore, And hear the waves of the distracted sea Piteously calling and lamenting thee, And waiting restless at thy cottage door. The rocks, the seaweed on the ocean floor, The willows in the meadow, and the free Wild winds of the Atlantic welcome me ; Then why shouldst thou be dead, and come no more ? Ah, why shouldst thou be dead, when common men Are busy with their trivial affairs, Having and holding ? Why, when thou hadst read Nature's mysterious manuscript, and then Wast ready to reveal the truth it bears, Why art thou silent ? Why shouldst thou be dead ? IV River, that stealest with such silent pace Around the City of the Dead, 1 where lies A friend who bore thy name, and whom these eyes Shall see no more in his accustomed place, Linger and fold him in thy soft embrace, And say good night, for now the western skies Are red with sunset, and gray mists arise Like damps that gather on a dead man's face. Good night ! good night ! as we so oft have said Beneath this roof at midnight, in the days 1 Mount Auburn Cemetery lies near the river bank. 52 CHARLES SUMXER. That are no more, and shall no more return. Thou hast but taken thy lamp and gone to bed ; I stay a little longer, as one stays To cover up the embers that still burn. The doors are all wide open ; at the gate The blossomed lilacs counterfeit a blai And seem to warm the air; a dreamy ha Hangs o'er the Brighton meadows like a fat< And on their margin, with sea-tides elate, The flooded Charles. as in the happier daj Writes the last letter of his name, and >ta\ His restless steps, as if compelled to wait. I also wait; but they will come no moi Those friends of mine, whose presence satisfied The thirst and hunger of mv heart. Ah me I They have forgot te n the pathway to my doorl Something is gone from nature since they died. And summer is not summer, nor can 1 CHARLES SUMNEB Garlands upon his grave And flowers upon his hearse, And to the tender heart and brave The tribute of this verse. His was the troubled life, The conflict and the pain, The grief, the bitterness of Btrifi The honor without stain. CHARLES SUMNER. 53 Like Winkelried, 1 lie took Into his manly breast The sheaf of hostile spears, and broke A path for the oppressed. Then from the fatal field Upon a nation's heart Borne like a warrior on his shield ! — So should the brave depart. Death takes us by surprise, And stays our hurrying feet ; The great design unfinished lies, Our lives are incomplete. But in the dark unknown - Perfect their circles seem, Even as a bridge's arch of stone Is rounded in the stream. Alike are life and death, When life in death survives, And the uninterrupted breath Inspires a thousand lives. Were a star quenched on high, For ages would its light, 1 Arnold of Winkelried, a Swiss hero, who, as the story runs, when the Austrians four thousand strong met the Swiss, fifteen hundred in number, rushed forward, grasped with outstretched arms as many Austrian pikes as he could reach, buried them in his own body and so fell forward to the earth. His companions threw themselves into the breach thus made and so won the day. The battle took place at Sempach in Switzerland, July 9, 1386, and its anniversary is still kepto 54 OLIVER BASSELIN. Still travelling downward from the sky, Shine on our mortal sight. So when a great man dies, 1 For years beyond our ken, The light he leaves behind him lies Upon the paths of men. OLIVER BASSELIN. In the Valley of the Vire 2 Still is seen an ancient mill, With its gables quaint and queer, And beneath the window-sill, On the stone, These words alone : "Oliver Basselin lived here/' Far above it, on the steep, Ruined stands the old Chateau ; Nothing but the donjon-keep Left for shelter or for show. Its vacant eyes Stare at the skies, Stare at the valley green and dec]). Once a convent, old and brown. Looked, but ah ! it looks no more, From the neighboring hillside down On the rushing and the roar Of the stream 1 Sumner died March 11, 1874. 2 The pronunciation will be seen by the rhyme. OLI VER BA SSELIN. 55 Whose sunny gleam Cheers the little Norman town. In that darksome mill of stone, To the water's dash and din, Careless, humble, and unknown, Sang the poet Basselin Songs that fill That ancient mill With a splendor of its own. Never feeling of unrest Broke the pleasant dream he dreamed ; Only made to be his nest, All the lovely valley seemed ; No desire Of soaring higher Stirred or fluttered in his breast. True, his songs were not divine ; Were not songs of that high art, Which, as winds do in the pine, Find an answer in each heart ; But the mirth Of this green earth Laughed and revelled in his line. From the alehouse and the inn, Opening on the narrow street, Came the loud, convivial din, Singing and applause of feet, The laughing lays 56 NUREMBERG. That in those days Sang the poet Basselin. 1 In the castle, cased in steel, Knights, who fought at Agincourt, Watched and waited, spur on heel ; But the poet sang for sport Songs that rang Another clang, Songs that lowlier hearts could feel. 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 emperor rough and bold, Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centu- ries old ; And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme, 1 Basselin called his light, gay Bongs, Songs of Vaui . Waiting, watching For a well-known footstep in the pa Each man's chimney is his Golden Mile Stone; 2 Is the central point, from which he measun Every distance Through the gateways of the world around him. 1 See Shakespeare's The T< mpt it* 2 A stone column wus set up by the Romans to mark eaofa mile on their great military roads, and in the Forum in Rom< , as at the centre of the Empire, the Emperor Augustus erected a giM brant column. The base of the column is ] 1. THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 63 In his farthest wanderings still he sees it ; Hears the talking flame, the answering night-wind, As he heard them When he sat with those who were, but are not. Happy he whom neither wealth nor fashion, Nor the march of the encroaching city, Drives an exile From the hearth of his ancestral homestead. We may build more splendid habitations, Fill our rooms with paintings and with sculptures, But we cannot Buy with gold the old associations ! THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 1 It was the season, when through all the land The merle and mavis build, and building sing Those lovely lyrics, written by His hand, Whom Saxon Caedmon 2 calls the Blithe-heart King ; When on the boughs the purple buds expand, The banners of the vanguard of the Spring, And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap, And wave their fluttering signals from the steep. The robin and the bluebird, piping loud, Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee ; 1 One of the Tales of a Wayside Inn, supposed to be told by the Poet of the company. Killingworth in Connecticut was named from the English town Kenilworth, but both in England and in Connecticut the name became changed into Killingworth in popular usage, and here that name has become the regular name of the town. 2 Pronounced Kedmon. 64 THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. The sparrows chirped as if they still wi re proud Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned 1>< ; l And hungry crows, assembled in a crowd, Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly, Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said : " Give us, O Lord, this day, our daily bread ! Across the Sound the birds of passage Bailed, Speaking some unknown language strange and sweet Of tropic isle remote, and passing hailed The village with the cheers of all their flee! ; Or quarrelling together, laughed and railed Like foreign sailors, landed in th< Of seaport town, and with outlandish DOl Of oaths and gibberish Erightenin pis and boys* Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth, In fabulous days, some hundred \e;i And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth, Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow. That mingled with the universal mirth, Cassandra-like, prognosticating W06 They shook their heads, and doomed with dreadful words To swift destruction the whole race of birds. And a town-meeting was convened Btraightwaj To set a price upon the guilty heads Of these marauders, who. in lieu of pay, Levied black-mail upon the garden beds And cornfields, and beheld without dismay The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering Bhreds; 1 See the ( ! of tffttthew, \. 29 SI. THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 65 The skeleton that waited at their feast, 1 Whereby their sinful pleasure was increased. Then from his house, a temple painted white, With fluted columns, and a roof of red, The Squire came forth, august and splendid sight ! Slowly descending, with majestic tread, Three flights of steps, nor looking left nor right, Down the long street he walked, as one who said, " A town that boasts inhabitants like me Can have no lack of good society ! " The Parson, too, appeared, a man austere, The instinct of whose nature was to kill ; The wrath of God he preached from year to year, And read, with fervor, Edwards on the Will ; 2 His favorite pastime was to slay the deer In Summer on some Adirondac hill ; E'en now, while walking down the rural lane, He lopped the wayside lilies with his cane. From the Academy, whose belfry crowned The hill of Science with its vane of brass, Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round, Now at the clouds, and now at the green grass, And all absorbed in reveries profound Of fair Almira in the upper class, Who was, as in a sonnet he had said, As pure as water, and as good as bread. 1 There is an old story that the Egyptians used to set up an image of a dead man at their feasts, to remind the guests of the saying, " Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die." 2 Jonathan Edwards was a famous New England divine who lived in the former half of the eighteenth century, and wrote a great book on T~he Freedom of the Will. 66 THE BIRDS OF KILLINQWORTH, And next the Deacon issued from his door, In his voluminous neck-cloth, white as snov A suit of sable bombazine he won His form was ponderous, and his step was >low ; There never was so wise a man befon He seemed the incarnate " Well, I told you - And to perpetuate his greal renown There was a street named after him in town. These came together in the new town-hall, With sundry farmers from tli jjion round. The Squire presided, dignified and tall, His air impressive and hi^ reasoning Bound : 111 fared it with the birds, l><»tli greal and small : Hardly a friend in all thai crowd they found. But enemies enough, who ever] one Charged them with all the crime death the sun. When they had ended, from his place apart Rose the Preceptor, to redress the wron And, trembling like a steed before the start, Looked round bewildered on the ex] n1 throng Then thought of fair Almira, and took heart To speak out what was in him, clear and strong. Alike regardless of their smile or frown. And quite determined not to be laughed down. "Plato, anticipating the Review From his Republic banished without pit The Poets ; in this little town of yours, You put to death, by means of a ( !ommil The ballad-singers and the Troubadoiu The street-musicians of the heavenly citj The birds, who make BWeel music for U8 all In our dark hours, as David did for SauL THE BIRDS OF KILLING WORTH. 67 " The thrush that carols at the dawn of day From the green steeples of the piny wood ; The oriole in the elm ; the noisy jay, Jargoning like a foreigner at his food ; The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray, Flooding with melody the neighborhood ; Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song. " You slay them all ! and wherefore ? for the gain Of a scant handful more or less of wheat, Or rye, or barley, or some other grain, Scratched up at random by industrious feet, Searching for worm or weevil after rain ! Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet As are the songs these uninvited guests Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts. " Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these ? Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught The dialect they speak, where melodies Alone are the interpreters of thought ? Whose household words are songs in many keys, Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught ! Whose habitations in the tree-tops even Are half-way houses on the road to heaven ! " Think, every morning when the sun peeps through The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove, How jubilant the happy birds renew Their old, melodious madrigals of love ! 1 And when you think of this, remember too 1 Marlowe, an English poet of Shakespeare's time, has a line — " Melodious birds sing madrigals." 68 THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 'T is always morning somewhere, and above The awakening continents, from shore to shore, Somewhere the birds are singing evermore. " Think of your woods and orchards without birds ! Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams As in an idiot's brain remembered words Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams ! Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds Make up for the lost music, when your teams Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more The feathered gleaners follow to your door ? " What ! would you rather see the incessant stir Of insects in the windrows of the hay, And hear the locust and the grasshopper Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play ? Is this more pleasant to you than the whir Of meadow-lark, and her sweet roundelay, Or twitter of little field-fares, as you take Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake ? " You call them thieves and pillagers ; but know, They are the winged wardens of your farms, Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe, And from your harvests keep a hundred harms ; Even the blackest of them all, the crow, Renders good service as your man-at-arms, Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail, And crying havoc on the slug and snail. " How can I teach your children gentleness, And mercy to the weak, and reverence For Life, which, in its weakness or excess, THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 69 Is still a gleam of God's omnipotence, Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is no less The selfsame light, although averted hence, When by your laws, your actions, and your speech, You contradict the very things I teach ? " With this he closed ; and through the audience went A murmur, like the rustle of dead leaves ; The farmers laughed and nodded, and some bent Their yellow heads together like their sheaves ; Men have no faith in fine-spun sentiment Who put their trust in bullocks and in beeves. The birds were doomed ; and, as the record shows, A bounty offered for the heads of crows. There was another audience out of reach, Who had no voice nor vote in making laws, But in the papers read his little speech, And crowned his modest temples with applause ; They made him conscious, each one more than each, He still was victor, vanquished in their cause. Sweetest of all the applause he won from thee, O fair Almira at the Academy ! And so the dreadful massacre began ; O'er fields and orchards, and o'er woodland crests, The ceaseless fusillade of terror ran. Dead fell the birds, with blood-stains on their breasts, Or wounded crept away from sight of man, While the young died of famine in their nests ; A slaughter to be told in groans, not words, The very St. Bartholomew of Birds ! 1 i The Massacre of St. Bartholomew was the name given to the sudden destruction of Huguenots in France, by order of the 70 THE BIRDS OF KILLING WORTH. The Summer came, and all tlie^ birds were dead ; The days were like hot coals ; the very ground Was burned to ashes ; in the orchards fed Myriads of caterpillars, and around The cultivated fields and garden beds Hosts of devouring insects crawled, and found No foe to check their march, till they had made The land a desert without leaf or shade. Devoured by worms, like Herod, 1 was the town, Because, like Herod, it had ruthlessly Slaughtered the Innocents. From the trees spun down The canker-worms upon the passers-by, Upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, and gown, Who shook them off with just a little en They were the terror of each favorite walk, The endless theme of all the village talk. The farmers grew impatient, but a few Confessed their error, and would not complain, For after all, the best thing one can do When it is raining, is to let it rain. Then they repealed the law, although they knew It woidd not call the dead to life again; As school-boys, finding their mistake too late. Draw a wet sponge across the accusing slate. That year in Killingworth the Autumn came Without the light of his majestic look, ruling sovereign, Charles DL, at the instance of his mother Cathe- rine, begun on St. Bartholomew's Day, i. e. between the 24th and 25th of August. The year was 1672. 1 The Herod thus devoured was the grandson <>f tin Berod who ordered the massacre of the Iimoeen THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 71 The wonder of the falling tongues of flame, The illumined pages of his Doom's-Day book. 1 A few lost leaves blushed crimson with their shame, And drowned themselves despairing in the brook, While the wild wind went moaning everywhere, Lamenting the dead children of the air ! But the next Spring a stranger sight was seen, A sight that never yet by bard was sung, As great a, wonder as it would have been If some dumb animal had found a tongue ! A wagon, overarched with evergreen, Upon whose boughs were wicker cages hung, All full of singing birds, came down the street, Filling the air with music wild and sweet. From all the country round these birds were brought, By order of the town, with anxious quest, And, loosened from their wicker prisons, sought In woods and fields the places they loved best, Singing loud canticles, which many thought Were satires to the authorities addressed, While others, listening in green lanes, averred Such lovely music never had been heard ! But blither still and louder carolled they Upon the morrow, for they seemed to know It was the fair Almira's wedding-day, And everywhere, around, above, below, When the Preceptor bore his bride away, Their songs burst forth in joyous overflow, 1 The original Doom's-Day or Domesday book was a regis- tration of all the lands in the kingdom of England, ordered by William the Conqueror. The term is also applied to the judg- ment-book or book of the day of doom. 72 THE HERONS OF ELM WOOD. And a new heaven bent over a new earth Amid the sunny farms of Killingworth. 1863. THE HERONS OF ELMWOOD. Warm and still is the summer night. As here by the river's brink I wander ; White overhead are the stars, and white The glimmering lamps on the hillside yonder. Silent are all the sounds of day ; Nothing I hear but the chirp of crickets, And the cry of the herons winging their way O'er the poet's house in the Elmwood ' thickets. Call to him, herons, as slowly yon pass To your roosts in the haunts of the exiled thrushes, Sing him the song of the green morass, And the tides that water the reeds and rushes. Sing him the mystical Song of the Hern, And the secret that baffles our utmost seeking For only a sound of lament we discern, And cannot interpret the words you are speaking. Sing of the air, and the wild delighl Of wings that uplift and winds that uphold you. The joy of freedom, the rapture of flight Through the drift of the floating mists thai enfold you; 1 Elmwood, a short distance from Longfellow 9 ! borne, was the home of his brother poet and friend, Jamefl Etoflaell LowelL BAYARD TAYLOR. 73 Of the landscape lying so far below, With its towns and rivers and desert places ; And the splendor of light above, and the glow Of the limitless, blue, ethereal spaces. Ask him if songs of the Troubadours, Or of Minnesingers in old black-letter, Sound in his ears more sweet than -yours, And if yours are not sweeter and wilder and bet- ter. Sing to him, say to him, here at his gate, Where the boughs of the stately elms are meet- ing, Some one hath lingered to meditate, And send him unseen this friendly greeting ; That many another hath done the same, Though not by a sound was the silence broken ; The surest pledge of a deathless name Is the silent homage of thoughts unspoken. 1876, BAYARD TAYLOR. Dead he lay among his books ! The peace of God was in his looks. As the statues in the gloom Watch o'er Maximilian's tomb, 1 So those volumes from their shelves Watched him, silent as themselves. 1 In the cathedral at Innsbruck. 74 BAYARD TAYLOR. Ah! his hand will nevermore Turn their storied ] Nevermore his lips repeat Songs of theirs, however sweet. Let the lifeless body rest! He is gone, who was its gn Gone, as travellers haste to In An inn, nor tarry until ev< Traveller! in whal realms afar, In what planet, in \s liat star, In what vast, aerial sji Shines the light upon th\ t In what gardens of delight Rest thy wear] Eeei to-nighl Poet! thou, whose l;it( ->1 \ . Was a garland on thy hearse | Thou hast rang, with organ tone, In Deukalion'a ' life, thine own ; On the ruins of the Pa Blooms the perfect flower at last. Friend I but yesterday the bell Rang for thee their Lond Farewell 1 Prince Deukalion was the 1 r.;.\;ml Tajrkrt great poems. 1878. TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE. 75 And to-day they toll for thee, Lying dead beyond the sea ; x Lying dead among thy books, The peace of God in all thy looks ! TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE. 2 The ceaseless rain is falling fast, And yonder gilded vane, Immovable for three days past, Points to the misty main. It drives me in upon myself . And to the fireside gleams, To pleasant books that crowd my shelf, And still more pleasant dreams. I read whatever bards have sung Of lands beyond the sea, And the bright days when I was young Come thronging back to me. In fancy I can hear again The Alpine torrent's roar, The mule-bells on the hills of Spain, The sea at Elsinore. 1 Taylor, the poet, the writer of travels and of stories, was made Minister of the United States in Germany, and died in Berlin, December 19, 1878. 2 This poem was written as an introduction to a series of vol- umes edited by Mr. Longfellow, entitled Poems of Places. 76 TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE. I see the convent's gleaming wall Rise from its groves of pin And towers of old cathedrals tall, And castles by the Rhine. I journey on by park and spin Beneath centennial trees, Through fields with poppies all on ft And gleams of distant seas. I fear no more the dusl and heat, No more I fori Eatigue, While journeying with another t O'er many a lengthening leagui Let others traverse sea and land. And toil through various (dim. I turn the world round with m\ hand Beading these poets' rhym< From them I Irani whatever lies Beneath each changing zon< And see, when Looking with their rves, Better than with mine own. A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET. 77 A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET. 1 OCTOBER, 1746. MR. THOMAS PRINCE loquitur. A fleet with flags arrayed Sailed from the port of Brest, And the Admiral's ship displayed The signal : " Steer southwest." For this Admiral D'Anville Had sworn by cross and crown To ravage with fire and steel Our helpless Boston Town. There were rumors in the street, In the houses there was fear Of the coming of the fleet, And the danger hovering near. And while from mouth to mouth Spread the tidings of dismay, I stood in the Old South, Saying humbly : " Let us pray ! " O Lord ! we would not advise ; But if in thy Providence A tempest should arise To drive the French fleet hence, 1 The capture of Louisburg, a stronghold of the French in Cape Breton, in 1745, by a combined land and sea force, organ- ized by Governor Shirley of Massachusetts, greatly incensed the French, and in 1746 they sent over a fleet under command of the Admiral D'Anville, with the special purpose of wreaking vengeance on Boston. The fleet met with a series of disasters, and nothing came of the attempt. The Reverend Thomas Prince was minister of the Old South in Boston. 78 A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET. And scatter it far and wide, Or sink it in the sea. We should be satisfied. And thine the glory be.*' This was the prayer I made. For my sonl was all on Hanu And even as I prayed The answering tempesi came ; It came with a mighty power, Shaking the windows and walla, And tolling the bell in the tow< As it tolls at funerals. The lightning suddenly Unsheathed its flaming sword. And 1 cried : "Stand still, and see The 'salvation of the Lord I The heavens were blach with cloud, The sea was white with hail. And ever more fierce and loud Blew the ( October gal< The fleel it overtool And the broad Bails in tin* win Like the tents of Clishan sIhm.I ( )r the curtains of Midian. Down on the reeling decks Crashed the overwhelming s< Ah, never were there w n cks So pitiful as these ! Like a potter's vessel broki The groat BhipS of the Lift KING CHRISTIAN. 79 They were carried away as a smoke, Or sank like lead in the brine. O Lord ! before thy path They vanished and ceased to be, When thou didst walk in wrath With thine horses through the sea ! KING CHRISTIAN. 1 A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK. King Christian stood by the lofty mast In mist and smoke ; His sword was hammering so fast, Through Gothic helm and brain it passed ; Then sank each hostile hulk and mast, In mist and smoke. " Fly ! " shouted they, " fly, he who can ! Who braves of Denmark's Christian The stroke ? " Nils Juel 2 gave heed to the tempest's roar, Now is the hour ! He hoisted his blood-red flag once more, And smote upon the foe full sore, And shouted loud, through the tempest's roar, " Now is the hour ! " " Fly ! " shouted they, " for shelter fly ! Of Denmark's Juel who can defy The power ? " 1 Written during a visit to Copenhagen in September, 1835* The poet first heard the air from some strolling musician in a coffee-house, and, looking up the words, translated them. 2 A celebrated Danish admiral. 80 A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. North Sea ! a glimpse of Wessel ' rent Thy murky sky ! Then champions to thine arms were Bent ; Terror and Death glared where he went; From the waves was heard a wail, that rent Thy murky sky ! From Denmark thunders Tordenskiol Let each to Heaven oommend his Boul, And fly ! Path of the Dane to fame and might I Dark-rolling wav. Receive thy friend, who. Booming flight, Goes to meet danger with despifc Proudly as thou the tempest's might, Dark-rolling \va\. And amid pleasures and alarm And war and victor] , be thine i My grav. A GLEAM OF srXsMixi This is the place. >t;in