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 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
WOLFE OF THE KNOLL, 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 ^ 
 
 MKS. GEOEGE Pf MARSH 
 
 1-. 
 
 / 
 
 NEW YORK : 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER, GRAND STREET. 
 
 LONDON": 
 
 SAMPSON LOW, SON & COMPANY. 
 
 1860. 
 
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 ^.^fc. S^^^Jl^f^^ ^r. /p^/^ry 
 

 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S59, by 
 
 CHAELES SCEIBNEK, 
 
 In the Clerk's Oflice of the District Court of the United States for the Southern 
 
 District of New York. 
 
 JOHN F. TROW, 
 
 PRINTER, BTEKEOTYPER, AND KLKCTROTYPKK, 
 
 377 and 379 Brjiilwiiy, 
 Cor. Wliite Street, New York. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Wolfe of the Knoll, .... ... 13 
 
 NiORTHR AND SkATHI, 229 
 
 A Fable, 236 
 
 The Maid of the Merry Heart, . . . . . 238 
 A Lay of the Danube : 
 
 I. The Wissehrad, 240 
 
 II. The Magyar Maid, 242 
 
 Daniel, the Cistercian, 248 
 
 The Fountain of the Poor, 251 
 
 The Water of El Arbain, 256 
 
 Axel (from the Swedish of Tegner), 261 
 
 Song of the Lapland Lover (from the Swedish of Franzen), . 308 
 
 The Moss-Rose (from the German of Helmine von Chezy), . 811 
 
 The Glow-Worm (from the German of Helmine von Chezy), . 314 
 
 A Godlie Hymne (from the German of Zuiuglius), . . 316 
 
 To , 324 
 
WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
mXEODUCTIO]^. 
 
 The scene of the following poem is laid alternately on the 
 island of Amrum near the coast of the duchy of Schleswig- 
 Holstein, and in the city of Tunis and the territory of that Bey- 
 lik. In the descriptions of the island and of the manners of 
 its inhahitants, are embraced not only the characteristic features 
 of Amrum itself, hut those belonging to the Halligs, or low tide- 
 washed islands of the same shallow waters, and they have been 
 drawn principally from J. G. Xohl's " Marschen und Inseln der 
 HerzogtJiumer Schleswig und Hohtein^'^ and from a tale by 
 Biernatzki. 
 
 The singular geography of the Frisian country, and the strange 
 life of its people, seem to have made a powerful impression on 
 Tacitus and the elder Pliny. The latter gives, in Book xvi., 
 chap. i. of his '■'- N'atural History^'''' a lively description of the 
 scene of this part of our story, which, in the words of Kohl, 
 "is as faithful and striking, as if, like me, he had himself sailed 
 over from Wyk to Oland with Skipper Jilke Junk Jtirgens." 
 For Holland's translation of the passage the reader is referred to 
 the Appendix I. 
 
 Tacitus, speaking of Germany generally, argues that the 
 
12 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 people must have been indigenous, because no man would ever 
 leave Asia, Africa or Italy, and brave the horrors of the deep, 
 to become a resident of so desolate and wretched a region. It 
 appears, both from his testimony and from other sources, that 
 the Frisians of the coast and the islands have, from the earliest 
 ages, been remarkable for their courage and independence. For 
 an amusing version of the story of the two ambassadors, whose 
 appearance in the theatre at Rome is commemorated by Tacitus, 
 Annal. 13, 54, the reader is again referred to the Appendix II. 
 
 The pictures of the Sahara, and of the wild tribes who 
 traverse it, are drawn partly from the writer's personal obser- 
 vation of desert-life and scenery, and partly from authorities 
 which will be given hereafter. 
 
 The leading incidents of the story are taken from a tradition 
 contained in the first chapter of the second volume of Kohl's 
 work, and the name of the poem is from the same source. 
 
 It may be unnecessary to say, that the narrative is intended 
 to serve merely as a thread to connect the strong contrasts of 
 life and nature offered by the peculiar regions that have been 
 selected for description. 
 
WOLFE OF THE KNOLL 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 AMPwOOM. 
 
 Come, ye that are weary of heart, with me 
 
 To a far-off isle in a lonely sea ! 
 
 It lies, not glowing 'neath tropical skies. 
 
 Cradled in waters of amethyst dyes ; 
 
 No vine-wreaths are there, no feathery palms, 
 
 No blossoms are filling the air with balms. 
 
 No forests are waving, no stately trees — 
 
 Grand organs played by the tune-loving breeze — 
 
 Not even a coppice where summer birds throng 
 
 Dazzling with plumage or thrilling with song ; 
 
 No stream leapeth wild from the mountain-side, 
 1* 
 
14 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 'Neath cavernous rocks for a moment to hide, 
 Then calmly through winding valleys to glide. 
 No lake nestles there, with its fairy skiffs, 
 Half silvered by moonlight, half shaded by cliffs. 
 Our desolate choice hath no charms like these, 
 Sad hearts to comfort, or glad ones to please. 
 The sea casteth pearls on Araby's strand. 
 Shells, corals, and sea-moss, and ruby sand ; 
 And emerald, scarlet, and gold fish there 
 Flash through his waters transparent as air. 
 His wavelets are laughing all night on that shore. 
 Tossing their jew^els at touch of the oar.* 
 But angry and hoarse is the voice of the tide. 
 As he lashes our island's trembling side. 
 And rolls up the ooze from his slimy bed, 
 The pale thin meadows to overspread. 
 Then leaves, as he slowly sinketh back. 
 The muscle, the crab, and the ray in his track. 
 
 * The brilliant flashes oj phosphoric light, seen when the waves dash 
 upon the reefs, or are broken by the oar or otherwise, are called by the 
 Arabs " the jewels of the deep." 
 
AMEOOM. 15 
 
 Else few are the gifts that he bringeth the while ; 
 He weareth at best but a mocking smile, 
 Like a foe confessed, who knoweth his power, 
 And his victim's weakness, yet bides the hour."* 
 
 On the North Sea's icy and heaving breast 
 The islet of Amroom finds doubtful rest, 
 Above the wild waters scarce holdeth its place, 
 And bleak are the winds that sweep o'er its face 
 All bare to the blast, for shelter is none, 
 Save what the billows in scorn have upthrown — 
 The downs low and broken along the strand, 
 'Gainst the North Sea a rampart of shifting sand. 
 'Twould seem that King ^gir,f in merry mood, 
 Would teach us to fetter his own wild flood. 
 
 * One is coustautly reminded by the figuratiA^e language of the people 
 that the whole coast is at war with the sea. Thej always speak of the 
 west wind and the ocean as " the enemv ; " of the downs and dykes as 
 " the defences and iutrenchments against the enemy ; " of the outer tier 
 of islands as " the vanguard," and of the inner as " the rear-guard." 
 
 t In the Scandinavian mythology JEgiv is a sea-god, who personifies 
 the destructive, as Njord does the beneficent powers of the ocean. 
 
16 WOLFE OF THE -KNOLL. 
 
 But man may not trust to his treacherous art — • 
 One stroke, in his wrath, and those hills shall part ! 
 The rest of the island, level and low, 
 The turbulent tide doth oft overflow, 
 Nor is thus contented ; but day by day 
 Doth he crumble that dwindling sod away, 
 And foot by foot it is narrowing fast ; 
 All will be melted in ocean at last. 
 
 But who are the dwellers on this lone spot 
 
 By nature herself disowned and forgot. 
 
 That here we should linger in such a waste, 
 
 Unblest as the fancy of poet e'er traced ! 
 
 Why seek we not, rather, some coralline isle 
 
 Of seas Pacific, to feast for awhile 
 
 On flowers that would seem to our wondering eyes 
 
 To have dropped from the fields of Paradise — 
 
 On fruits that a flavor as rich might boast 
 
 As the pride of Ulysses' royal host — 
 
 Where beauty, as soft as the Latmian dreams 
 
AMKOOM. 17 
 
 Of England's slain poet, forever beams — 
 Where mermaids hollow their sparkling caves 
 In the crystal rocks that the cool tide laves, 
 And hlow sweet airs through their pearly shells 
 Till wide o'er the island the harmony swells ? 
 Ah ! our brother man — so fallen, so low ! 
 With an aching heart we should turn and go ! 
 Then choose for our dreaming this desert sod, 
 With a truth-loving folk, that feareth God ! 
 
 Through fiery haze descends the sun. 
 
 And throws across the waters dun 
 
 A slender band of ruddy stain 
 
 So bright it seems the golden chain, 
 
 That binds earth to his glorious sphere, 
 
 Is visibly extended here. 
 
 And that the dancing waves may break 
 
 The flashing links they rudely shake. 
 
 Tranquilly doth our islet sleep, 
 
 This eventide, upon the deep. 
 
18 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 O'er its bare face the slant rays pass 
 
 And gild it with a tender glow, 
 
 Leaving no image on the grass, 
 
 Of rocky crag or greenwood bough ; 
 
 The crescent line of downs alone 
 
 Hath eastward a broad shadow thrown, 
 
 And the poor cotter's lowly roof, 
 
 From angry spring-tides held aloof 
 
 By the turfed mound his hands have reared* 
 
 Above the reach of foe so feared, 
 
 In lengthening lines fantastic drawn, 
 
 Lies pictured on the sea- washed lawn ; 
 
 While flocks, slow drawing toward each thatch, 
 
 Still eager, their scant pasture snatch. 
 
 His homeward path the peasant treads, 
 
 His children gather at his knee. 
 
 Their slender board the mother spreads — 
 
 Here all is peace and poverty. 
 
 * The inhabitants of these tide-islands are obliged to erect their humble 
 dwellings on artificial mounds raised above the reach of high-water. 
 
AMKOOM. 19 
 
 Without, no sound but the low dash 
 
 Of tidal wave, the cry or plash 
 
 Of the wild sea-bird, glancing bright 
 
 As starry meteor in its flight. 
 
 No children on that strand are seen 
 
 Grouped merrily in noisy play, 
 
 No muser marks with thoughtful mien 
 
 The dying splendors of the day, 
 
 No stranger-eyes with wonder view 
 
 A scene so lonely and so new. 
 
 But on yon knoll an old man stands 
 With furrowed cheeks and toil-worn hands ; 
 His long, loose hair is bleached as hoar 
 As the bright foam that wreathes the shore ; 
 His form, erect in youthful prime, 
 Bends 'neath the gathered griefs of time ; 
 Yet on that calm, sad brow is laid 
 Of wrong, revenge, remorse, no shade ; 
 Though deeply traced are sorrow's lines, 
 
20 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 The light of faith still clearly shines. 
 Most like a child who, while it grieves, 
 Still in a father's love believes, , 
 The old man seems ; and as the child. 
 To free its sight, doth push away 
 The ringlets from its forehead mild, 
 So throws he back his locks of gray. 
 Then searches long and eagerly 
 The horizon of that turbid sea. 
 With footstep hushed and pitying eye 
 The shepherds silent pass him by. 
 And every child is taught to show 
 Meet reverence for that head of snow. 
 
 Nor first this eve upon that hill 
 The aged Wolfe doth w\atch, but still, 
 Day after day, his stooping form 
 May there be seen, in calm and storm, 
 His eye turned ever to the sea. 
 North, west, and south, untiringly. 
 
AMEOOM. 21 
 
 No rising sun but fmds him there, 
 
 Nor misses him the evening star, 
 
 And the pale moon doth nightly shed 
 
 Her cold light on his frosted head. 
 
 First when the j^all of darkest night 
 
 Hath fallen, the old man leaves the height. 
 
 "What doth he there 1 Hath fancy wrought 
 
 Within his brain some strange misthought ? 
 
 Is it some vision that he sees, 
 
 A phantom-child of mist and breeze 1 
 
 Ah, no ! he waiteth for his boy. 
 
 The island's pride, his heart's last joy ! 
 
 Young Melleff was as brave as good, 
 A bolder lad ne'er stemmed the flood. 
 None ventured with a foot so free 
 To dare the treacherous tide as he. 
 When winds and waves the islet shook, 
 His arm secured the trembling flock. 
 Nor less his manly heart was shown 
 
22 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 In others' need, than in his own, 
 And oft admiring neighbors told, 
 How the boy's courage saved their fold. 
 But long ago this only son 
 A shepherd's for a sailor's life 
 Exchanged, and even years have flown, 
 Since hope and fear, in ceaseless strife, 
 Within the parent's heart have dwelt— 
 Ye know that grief who such have felt ! 
 Once, only, tidings had been brought, 
 Tidings with hope and comfort fraught ; 
 The youth ^ was soon to sail for home, 
 No more from the dear sod to roam, 
 Truth, charity, and peace were there, 
 The world without was cold and drear.' 
 But he comes not — the mother sleeps, 
 Weary with watching, in the grave, 
 Yet still the lonely father keeps 
 His eye upon the distant wave ; 
 
AMROOM. 23 
 
 He there may chance a ship to see, 
 And in that ship his child may be ! 
 
 Old Helda, widowed, poor and weak, 
 Was wandering on that beach, to seek 
 For sticks to light her evening fire, 
 When she beheld the anxious sire 
 Again on the accustomed hill. 
 " Thank God ! " she cried, " it was His will 
 To grant a lot less hard to me, 
 Than this — year after year to be 
 Mocked by vain hopes unceasingly. 
 Better to know my children rest 
 With God, and Christ, and angels blest. 
 And to live calm in the meek trust 
 To join them when this frame is dust ! " 
 Once more upon the down she cast 
 Her eyes, but night was gathering fast ; 
 " God help him ! " then her old lips pray. 
 And, with a sigh, she turns away. 
 
CANTO II 
 
 TUNIS-THE-WHITE. 
 
 Where lingers the son of the cloudy North ! 
 Hath he forgotten the home of his birth 1 
 Careth he not that his sire hath grown gray 
 With watching and praying by night and by day 1 
 As soon shall a mother forget her child 
 As the wandering boy his islet wild, 
 And thoughts of the eyes that wake and weep 
 For him, hold his own weary lids from sleep. 
 Thou, thou dost keep him, marvellous land 
 Of the sourceless river, the boundless sand ! 
 Visions of Amroom — home yearnings are vain ! 
 Fast, fast is he bound by the captive's chain. 
 
TUNIS-THE-WHITE. 25 
 
 On Tunis bright the sunbeams fall, 
 Where, girded by her double wall. 
 She sits a queen, upon whose brow 
 A thousand flashing crescents glow, 
 Forming a diadem to vie 
 With Maia's crown that flames on high. 
 Goodly, without, her vesture shows — 
 Scarce purer white the mountain-snows. 
 Who saw her thus, in royal state, 
 Kissed by the bounding wave so free, 
 Even lovely Venice might forget. 
 And hail her there, ' Bride of the Sea ! ' 
 Fair are her minarets and towers, 
 Her rosy gardens, viny bowers ; 
 Her fountains gush as clear and cold 
 As ever naiad's source of old. 
 And softer murmurs than they shed 
 Rose not from fond Alpheus' bed. 
 When Arethusa stooped to lave 
 Her tender limbs in his bright wave. 
 
26 WOLFE or THE KNOLL. 
 
 Her marts are heaped with merchandise, 
 Such as the gorgeous East supplies ; 
 Buyers and sellers throng her gates. 
 And at her feet a navy waits. 
 
 But now half-silent are her streets, 
 
 So fearfully the noontide beats 
 
 On the white arches, whose fierce glare 
 
 Scorches the eye ; the burning air 
 
 Is choked with sand the Ivliamseen * brings 
 
 Upon its swift and dreadful wings. 
 
 Within their halls the rich repose, 
 
 Their vacant shops the salesmen close. 
 
 But the poor hammal f bendeth still 
 
 Beneath his load ; the sakkas J fill 
 
 * Khamseen — from kliamsoon, fifty — is the name xisually given to a 
 strong south wind which blows throughout northern Africa, and especially 
 in the valley of the Nile, at intervals through a period of about fifty days 
 in the months of April, May, and June. 
 
 t Hammal, the Arabic word for porter ; a very important class of 
 laborers in Oriental cities, where wheel-carriages are not used.- 
 
 X Sakka, a water-carrier. See Appendix III. 
 
TUNIS-THE-WHITE. 27 
 
 Their water-skins afresh, while some . 
 Offer free draughts to all who come, 
 In name of the good Moslem soul 
 Whose bounty fills the brimming bowl. 
 The patient ass, that none will spare, 
 His crushing burden still must bear 
 Through the close lanes, while curses sore 
 The jostled passers on him pour. 
 These may not choose, they may not rest ; 
 Though taint with heat, with hunger pressed, 
 The poor, the brute, must toil or feel 
 From want or violence sharper ill. 
 
 Fanned by his slaves, the lordly Bey 
 
 On Persian mats soft dreaming lay. 
 
 Spacious the court and cool the air, 
 
 A thousand jets were playing there, 
 
 Breathing a low and hushing sound 
 
 More calm than silence ; all around 
 
 Choice flowers their fiirest bloom were spreading, 
 
28 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Through marble halls their perfume sheddmg 
 And pantmg birds were flocking there, 
 The freshness, without fear, to share ; 
 Tor w^ell the happy warblers know 
 The Prophet's follower ne'er their foe. 
 But not a human voice was heard, 
 And not a human footstep stirred. 
 Silent as stone, each watchful slave 
 Moved but the ostrich plume to wave ; 
 So deep a stillness must be kept. 
 To guard the rest of him that slept ! 
 
 But hark ! there is a cry without ! 
 ' Allah is great ! ' the faithful shout. 
 The voice of triumph in the street 
 Starts Aali from his slumber sweet. 
 He sends a slave the cause to learn — 
 'Tis for the corsair's safe return ; 
 New prizes in the harbor ride 
 To swell Tunisia's wealth and pride. 
 
TUNIS-THE-WHITE. 29 
 
 The victors towards the Casbah* press, 
 Cheered by the joyful populace. 
 Only last moon, like birds of prey, 
 On rapid wing they swept away. 
 And, as if gifted with the same 
 Mysterious sense that guideth them 
 Unfailing where their victim lies, 
 Sudden as bolt from the clear skies, 
 They lighted on the Franks too near 
 A Christian shore to dream of fear. 
 
 Their chieftain boasts that he is come 
 Of the great line of Khair-ed-deen,f 
 
 * The Casbah is a castellated fortress at Tunis, adjacent to which is the 
 palace of the Bey, Dar el Bey, and it gives name to a public square called 
 the " Square of the Casbah." 
 
 t Khair-ed-deen, the Excellence of tJie Religion, [of Islam,'] generally 
 known to Europeans by the name of Barbarossa, was a native of Mytilene, 
 and of Moslem birth and education, as appears by his own autobiography, 
 and not a renegade as he has usually been represented. He was the Nel- 
 son of the Ottoman marine in the sixteenth century, and conquered for the 
 Porte the regencies of Algiers and Tunis. No Turkish maritime com- 
 mander has ever made himself so formidable to the Franks, and the whole 
 coast of Spain and Italy was in a perpetual state of alarm while he was at 
 the head of the Ottoman navy. 
 
30 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 The terror once of Christendom, 
 
 That ne'er a bolder foe hath seen ; 
 
 And many a deed of blood and fire 
 
 Have proved him worthy of a sire, 
 
 Who made dread Barbarossa's name 
 
 The Paynim's pride, the Christian's shame. 
 
 Yet was not Murad merciless ; 
 
 Nor poor nor stranger would oppress ; 
 
 Ne'er lacked, beneath his roof, the * guest 
 
 Of God invited ' * food or rest. 
 
 Five times a day with zeal he prayed 
 
 Toward Mecca bowed his shaven head. 
 
 Kept fitting fast, and freely gave 
 
 Whene'er the poor an alms might crave. 
 
 Such duties did he ne'er forget. 
 
 Had not the Prophet clearly set 
 
 These precepts above every other — 
 
 * * The invited of God ' is the name given to a stranger who asks hos- 
 pitality. When a traveller approaches an encampment, he cries, " mas- 
 ter of the tent ! Lo, a guest invited of God ! " and seldom fails to receive 
 the attention and the comforts which his wants require. For the tradi- 
 tional sayings of the Prophet on this subject, see Appendix IV. 
 
TUNIS-THE-WHITE. 31 
 
 Worship to God, love to his brother ? 
 But Christians — was it not as plain 
 That they were infidels, not men, 
 Not brothel^ — ratJier dogs, indeed ! 
 Have we not heard as strange a creed '? 
 When late an iron despot raised 
 His arm, to crush a monarch praised 
 Of all, for mild and liberal laws, 
 A friend to every generous cause, 
 Whose empire's gates are open flung 
 To every faith and every tongue, 
 From our free land a chorus burst 
 To cheer the tyrant's deed accursed. 
 ' A Christian this, a Moslem he, 
 Can need of further witness be 1 ' 
 Vain man ! thus ever, to thy shame, 
 Cheating or cheated with a name ! 
 Think'st thou that Paul would sooner set 
 Mary o'er Christ than Mahomet ? 
 
32 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 But now too long the corsair waits 
 
 For audience at the palace-gates. 
 
 Behold him then before the Bey, 
 
 Greeting, as Moslem subject may, 
 
 His haughty lord, who bids him tell 
 
 How he hath spoiled the infidel. 
 
 Briefly showed Murad, as was meet, 
 
 That he had seized a merchant-fleet 
 
 Near Sicily's frequented coast — 
 
 * Complete the triumph that we boast. 
 
 And rich the booty that we bear. 
 
 Well worthy for a prince to share. 
 
 The slaves are countless — men and boys — 
 
 They stand without, and wait thy choice.' 
 
 " Allah is great, and thou art brave," 
 Eeplied the Bey, and signal gave 
 That, score by score, the Christians should 
 Be brought before him ; as they stood, 
 His keen eye saw, at one quick glance, 
 
TUNIS-THE-WHITE. 33 
 
 Of a large ransom what the chance, 
 And thus he chose — an eighth of all 
 By law doth to the pacha fall. 
 
 But who shall paint the captives' woe — 
 Anguish that words are vain to show ! 
 Wouldst thou thy curious fancy teach, 
 The means are not beyond thy reach. 
 Nor need imperial Catharine rise 
 To aid the artist's hard emprise. 
 A Christian land doth furnish forth 
 The spectacle to the whole earth, 
 With truth more awful to the soul 
 • Than to the ear the thunder-roll. 
 When to the skies the dreadful blast 
 The frigate's blazing fragments cast, 
 Shadowing to Hackert's wondering sight 
 The' horrors of the Tchesmian fight.* 
 
 * To enable Hackert to paint more truthfully the great naval victory 
 won by the Russian fleet over the Turkish at Tchesme in 1770, Admiral 
 OrloflF, by order of the empress, blew up a Russian frigate off Leghorn. 
 2* 
 
34: WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Enough, 'twas sad those Franks to see 
 
 Fettered before the Osmanli. 
 
 Shame and despair reigned in each face, 
 
 And left for pride but little place. 
 
 Yet Aali spake no word of scorn ; 
 
 His was a soul too nobly born 
 
 To mock the grief of that sad throng, 
 
 Though conscience charged him not with wrong. 
 
 Nor looked he there a tyrant fierce, 
 
 With breast that pity could not pierce. 
 
 Nor seemed more careless of distress 
 
 Than those who gentler faith profess. 
 
 A little girl upon his knee 
 
 Was leaning lovingly and free ; 
 
 Too tender yet her age to learn 
 
 Those lessons of submission stern, 
 
 And reverence, that the law requires, 
 
 Of Moslem children toward their sires ; 
 
 Nor veil nor lattice yet control 
 
 The freedom of her joyous soul. 
 
TUNIS-THE-WHITE. 35 
 
 See ! the proud pacha's hand is laid 
 As fondly on his daughter's head 
 As ever Christian father mild 
 Hath rested his upon his child. 
 And ne'er did opening flower disclose, 
 Since Chaucer saw his budding rose 
 So rich in beauty and perfume, 
 The promise of a Mrer bloom. 
 Than even the careless eye must trace 
 In Fatmeh's childish form and face. 
 Her large black eye with its clear ray 
 Spoke of near kinship to the Bey, 
 Yet tempered were its rising flashes 
 By the long drooping silken lashes. 
 That o'er those orbs transparent hung, 
 And down their trembling shadows flung. 
 Like willow-boughs that fringe a lake, 
 And its pure sheen less dazzling make. 
 The ebon arches o'er them bent 
 Were true as Giotto's hand could paint. 
 
36 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 In her dark, heavy tresses shone 
 
 A burnished light, as if the sun 
 
 Had softly kissed the glossy hair, 
 
 And left his golden radiance there ; 
 
 Proving that gleam, so strange inwrought 
 
 In the deep twilight of her braids, 
 
 From a Circassian mother caught, 
 
 With curls as bright as Saxon maids. 
 
 But she is gone ; the fairy child. 
 
 Half passionate, half angel-mild, 
 
 No kin doth know, save him who now i 
 
 So gently smooths her snowy brow. 
 
 And next an ancient nurse she loves, 
 
 And then her song-birds, flowers and doves. 
 
 At first she little marks the crowd 
 
 Of captives chained and sorrow-bowed, 
 
 (For she was wont from infancy 
 
 The witness of such scenes to be,) 
 
 And with impatience ill-repressed, 
 
 Waits for the troop to be dismissed, 
 
TUNIS-THE-WHITE. 37 
 
 That she may fill the pacha's ear 
 
 With prattle fathers love to hear. 
 
 But as the Bey, with rapid sign, 
 
 Drew one by one from the sad line 
 
 Tor his own thrall, a look she cast 
 
 Curious, scarce pitying, as they passed. 
 
 Until her full dilating gaze 
 
 A sudden earnestness betrays ; 
 
 For lo, a youth with sunny locks, 
 
 And eyes whose humid azure mocks 
 
 The dewy violet's purest shade, 
 
 Attracts the wondering little maid. 
 
 Of bearing bold, of stature high, 
 
 With sword-cuts fresh on brow and breast. 
 
 Though sorrow dimmed his dreamy eye, 
 
 His manly lip was firm comprest. 
 
 Oft from old Gerda had she heard, — 
 
 And much the tale her fancy stirred, — 
 
 That in the cold and distant North, 
 
 Land of her foster-mother's birth, 
 2* 
 
38 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Were men as any maiden fair, 
 
 With ruddy cheeks and golden hair, 
 
 And eyes whose depths of cloudless blue 
 
 Might rival Afric's sky in hue, 
 
 Yet never form of grander mould 
 
 Than theirs, nor heart more true and bold. 
 
 No sooner did her quick eye fall 
 
 Upon the prisoner fair and tall, 
 
 Than straight she thinks of Gerda's home, 
 
 And questions if he thence doth come, 
 
 Nor rests, till with sweet childhood's art, 
 
 She has learned all they can impart. 
 
 ' The Christian youth was from the North, 
 
 Melleff his name ; ' she rushes forth 
 
 To tell her nurse, with thoughtless joy. 
 
 Of the strange blue-eyed captive boy. 
 
CANTO III. 
 
 THE TIDINGS. 
 
 On Amroom are sunshine and summer to-day, 
 And it seems less lone and drear ; 
 
 The islanders gather in heaps their hay, 
 Their hope for the coming year. 
 
 And father and mother and youth and maid, 
 
 All join in the common toil ; 
 Earnest their work and the words that are said,- 
 
 Mirth flies from so rude a soil. 
 
 And ever a shadow yet graver still 
 O'er each laborer's face doth pass, 
 
 As he sendeth a glance toward yonder hill 
 Where shivers the tufted grass. 
 
40 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 There, seemingly heedless of all around, 
 
 With the sea-damps on his cheek, 
 Stands Wolfe — lo, he turns toward the new-mown ground, 
 
 And beckons as he would speak ! 
 
 " To-morrow's the sabbath, the day of rest," 
 
 Said the old man grave and mild, 
 " Your hay, if with sunshine again we're blest. 
 
 Will make as it lieth piled. 
 
 " Ye may sleep to-night without care or fear ; 
 
 I will watch the wind and tide ; 
 Should they threaten your harvest, ye shall hear 
 
 My w^arning echo wide." 
 
 The labor is ended, and one by one 
 
 They go to their quiet homes ; 
 From the snowy flocks each calleth his own, 
 
 Ere the misty darkness comes. 
 
THE TIDINGS. 4:1 
 
 Then climbing the mound that lifteth their cot 
 
 From the low and tide-washed sward, 
 At peace with themselves, and blessing their lot, 
 
 They draw round the evening board. 
 
 Though coarse the loaf that is broken here. 
 
 And it formeth, day by day. 
 With curds from the flock, their only cheer 
 
 Yet murmur nor want know they. 
 
 Now meekly, but clear, from each lowly shed 
 
 Ascendeth the hynm, and the prayer ; 
 The simple rite done, and the ' good-night ' said, 
 
 The household to rest doth repair. 
 
 And well may they slumber, so deep the repose ; 
 
 For there is nor sight nor sound, 
 Save the moon above, that so ruddy rose, 
 
 And the sea low moaning round. 
 
42 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 But while those evenmg hymns were sent 
 Heavenward, one voice of deep lament 
 And supplication from that sod 
 Wailed upward to the throne of God. 
 Wolfe of the Knoll upon the shore, 
 With searching eye, was seen no more ; 
 No more upon the fitful breeze 
 His locks of silver rose and fell, 
 Eestless as on those heaving seas 
 The crested billows sink and swell. 
 The promised watchman of the night, 
 That late stood calm on yonder height. 
 Now on his lowly pallet lies 
 With breaking heart and burning eyes. 
 This eve the fatal tidings gave 
 That Melleff was the heathen's slave. 
 The pastor, first to learn, must show 
 The hapless father all his woe. 
 
THE TIDINGS. 43 
 
 Dread task ! and now in vain he tries 
 To assuage that grief — the old man cries : 
 " Nay, leave me here with God alone, 
 Till I can say, ' His will be done ! ' " 
 
 The dawn is cloudless, the summer-smi shines 
 
 Again on the grateful isle ; 
 They may leave their hay till the day declines. 
 
 To worship their God, the while. 
 
 And early they gather, with Avilling feet. 
 
 At their humble place of prayer ; 
 In simple attire, and with reverence meet. 
 
 The old and the young are there. 
 
 The service is read, and the preacher takes 
 The word that they wait to hear — 
 
 Hark ! whence is the threatening sound that breaks 
 From without on his startled ear ? 
 
44 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 " My children, God sendeth the flood ! away, 
 
 And secure your whiter store ! 
 His blessing be with you — we'll meet to pray 
 
 Again when our work is o'er." 
 
 They fly to the meadows ; the tide swells fast, 
 But something there's time to save ! 
 
 The share of their faithful pastor, at least, 
 They'll snatch from the greedy wave. 
 
 In vain he urgeth to care for their own. 
 The strength of his well-tried arm, — 
 
 For no ! they will toil in his field alone, 
 Till its math is safe from harm. 
 
 Must the rest be lost ? strain every nerve, 
 
 For the hungry wave is nigh ! 
 Brief is the moment, yet still it may serve — 
 
 How from heap to heap they fly ! 
 
THE TIDINGS. 45 
 
 And higher, still higher, upon the land 
 
 Doth the angry ocean chafe — 
 With a smile of triumph the islanders stand, 
 
 Their precious harvest is safe ! 
 
 O'er the meadows a briny sea doth flow, 
 
 But baffled, its tides decrease ; 
 And pastor and people once more may go 
 
 To the house of God in peace. 
 
 Again they are taught from his holy word. 
 
 Again they praise and they pray. 
 And with glowing hearts do they bless the Lord 
 
 For the mercies of the day. 
 
 But last, and earnester still, are the prayers 
 
 That they for the father pour — 
 That God would remember his hoary hairs. 
 And his captive child restore ! * 
 
 * Although the people are very devout, they allow themselves to be in- 
 terrupted even in divine service by the approach of a tide which threatens 
 
46 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 The holy sabbath rites are o'er, 
 And through the consecrated door, 
 With voices hushed, the shepherds pour. 
 The weary pastor, only, turns 
 Not homeward yet ; his spirit yearns 
 To soothe the wretched father reft 
 Of the last hope that time had left. 
 Still in the narrow porch he stands. 
 His eye o'ers weeps the ebb-land wide. 
 Then of the westering sun demands 
 How soon returns the treacherous tide. 
 Another hour — his wary foot 
 
 their hay-crop, and they then rush to the fields in their Sunday garments. 
 A Hallig preacher told me he had once just began his sermon, when he 
 observed a movement in the congregation. One of the people soon came 
 up the pulpit steps, and, pulling him by the cassock, whispered, " Pastor, 
 the water is coming ! " He therefore dismissed the congregation, request- 
 ing them to return to the church after the work was ended, and went with 
 them to the meadows. In about three hours they secured their hay, and 
 met again at the church, to thank God for the saving of their only source 
 of income. 
 
 In the island of Helgoland, the arrival of the snipes authorizes the in- 
 terruption of worship. When the flocks alight, no time must be lost ; and 
 if the watchman calls at the church door, " Herr, pastor, de snipp is do ! " 
 *' Pastor, the snipes are here ! " the clergyman breaks off the service. — 
 Kolil Ins. u. Marsch. I. 325. 
 
THE TIDINGS. 47 
 
 May he not trust upon the beach, 
 That leads so shortly to the cot 
 His eager heart makes haste to reach ? 
 He'll swiftly cross the waves' dark track, 
 No threatening sea-mists warn him back. 
 
 The doubtful soil he now doth tread, 
 So late the refluent ocean's bed. 
 What change was here ! an hour before, 
 No sound except the tide's deep roar. 
 No life save what its bosom bore. 
 Now man's weak step is tracking free 
 The footprints of the mighty sea ! 
 A thousand channels, pearled with foam. 
 Are rippling toward their briny home ; 
 And countless forms of life, sea-born, 
 Left by their parent wave forlorn, 
 Lie struggling on the slimy strand. 
 Foes gathering fast on every hand. 
 With a sharp cry the swooping gull 
 
48 WOLFE or THE KNOLL. 
 
 Drops on his prey ; in the still pool 
 Dips the sea-swallow swift and light, 
 Then nestward takes his happy flight. 
 The rain-bird, pressed with hunger fell, 
 Tears the poor muscle from its shell, 
 And still new flocks are hurrying there, 
 The transitory spoil to share. 
 Far to the west, the eye may mark 
 Where, leaning low upon its side, 
 Lieth the fisher's helpless bark, 
 And passive waits the coming tide.* 
 
 Full oft the zealous man of God 
 That wild and wasting shore has trod, 
 And well he knows each changing phase 
 That home of poverty displays. 
 Yet doth it seem as strange to-night, 
 As on the well-remembered day, 
 When first before his straining sight 
 
 * Staring, De Bodem van Nederland, I. 231, gives a very picturesque 
 description of the flats at low-tide.. 
 
THE TIDINGS. 49 
 
 Its dreamlike desolation lay. 
 
 What years of toil and sacrifice 
 
 Between him and that moment rise ! * 
 
 Yet time that moment doth defy, 
 
 A fragment of eternity. 
 
 As then, he sees the eager crowd, 
 
 Half hidden by a misty shroud, 
 
 In costume quaint, press to the beach ; 
 
 Once more the friendly hand they reach, 
 
 Once more, with childlike speech and smile, 
 
 They bid him welcome to their isle. 
 
 He sees his meek, young wife, again 
 
 Covered with changeful blushes, when 
 
 They hail her by the tender name 
 
 Of 'mother,' f and her blessing claim. 
 
 Now to the cottage, garnished fair 
 
 For the new pastor, they prepare 
 
 * For an account of the arrival of a Hallig preacher in his parish, see 
 Appendix V. 
 
 t The pastor's wife is always called mother, and they say to her, " We 
 have come to invite mother to our christening, if mother has no objection." 
 
 o 
 
50 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 His little household store to bear, 
 And now his willing feet they guide 
 To the near church, their only pride. 
 Once more, from that same chapel mound, 
 He marks the dreary prospect round, 
 With anxious heart and wondering eye. 
 Here must he live — perhaps must die. 
 
 But o'er his thoughts thus backward cast. 
 Behold, a sudden change hath past, 
 For, by the law mysterious led 
 That links extremes, his fancy flies 
 From the low flats around him spread, 
 To lands where mountains pierce the skies. 
 The everlasting Alps she shows 
 Shaking from their o'erburdened brows 
 The crushing avalanche, that falls 
 In thunder down their rocky walls. 
 She pointeth from the idle boat 
 To the bold hunter, whose winged foot 
 Pursues the chamois' headlong flight. 
 
THE TIDINGS. 51 
 
 O'er rock and rift, from height to height. 
 The tangled sea-grass, coarse and dank, 
 Is lost in flowery meadows bright ; 
 No more a gray horizon blank, 
 But fringing forests, bound his sight. 
 The turbid channel's bitter stream 
 Hath vanished in that happy dream. 
 And lo, before the wanderer's soul 
 Sweet floods of living crystal roll, 
 And laughing cataracts madly leap, 
 Girt with a rainbow, down the steep, 
 From crag to crag — such as with joy 
 To fulness blessed him, when a boy. — 
 That boyhood, with its dear delights, 
 The days half labor and half play, 
 The fireside full that crowned the nights — 
 The starting tear he cannot stay, 
 So plain he sees the loving forms 
 That blessed him, when he turned away 
 To seek this cheerless isle of storms. 
 
52 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Hark ! dost not hear the hoarse wave break 
 Upon tlie shore ? wake, dreamer, wake ! 
 He starts, as from a heavy sleep ; 
 He sees the broadening channels deep 
 Weaving full fast their w^atery net 
 Around his thoughtless, lagging feet. 
 Then shot an icy shudder through 
 His frame — ' wife, children, leave them so, 
 Alone upon this wretched sod ! 
 Can this be, then, thy will, O God 1 ' 
 A moment brief, with horror fraught. 
 Flashed by, then came a calmer thought ; 
 ' He that hath made can still sustain, 
 Nor needs thy aid, O mortal vain ! ' 
 His heart grows still, the dread is j^ast, 
 Fear's palsying fetters broken through ; 
 Toward the near cot he boundeth fast. 
 And fast the hissing waves pursue. 
 In vain — they cannot reach him now ! 
 High on the cottage-mound he stands, 
 
THE TIDINGS. 53 
 
 Wipes the thick drops from his hot brow, 
 And lifts to Heaven his trembling hands. 
 Yet from his lips no sound there fell — 
 What words for such a moment meet, 
 When the whole heart doth upward swell, 
 In one full cloud of incense sweet ! 
 One backward glance he shrinking cast 
 Upon the fearful peril past,* 
 Then, turning to the roof of thatch. 
 He slowly lifts the simple latch. 
 
 O, grief ! whose heart is then so clean. 
 Whose hands in innocence so washed, 
 That he thy sacred form hath seen, 
 And stood before thee unabashed ! 
 To thy great altar who dares bring, 
 For offering, an unholy thing ! 
 
 * When the tide returns suddenly, persons walking on the flats during 
 the ebb are exposed to be cut off from the islands and drowned. Distress- 
 ing accidents of this kind are not uufrequeut. 
 
54: WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Only the soul's best gifts can meet 
 Acceptance at thine awful feet. 
 
 So felt the jDastor, as he stood 
 
 Speechless beside the man of woe, 
 
 And grasped his withered hand, nor could 
 
 The sympathetic tear forego. 
 
 On those three friends of old he thought, 
 
 Whose seven days' silence better spake 
 
 Than all the empty words they brought, 
 
 Which did but keener anguish wake. 
 
 God's voice alone such sorrow hears ; 
 
 Of man, it asks not truths, but tears. 
 
 He lifts a silent prayer on high — 
 
 Lo, suddenly the stricken sire 
 
 Looks up, his pale lips part, his eye 
 
 Doth burn, as with a j)rophet's fire, 
 
 And his full words swell, clear and strong, 
 
 As chorus of triumphal song. 
 
THE TIDINGS. - 55 
 
 " The Lord will surely visit him, 
 And bring back his captivity ! 
 Yea, though these eyes with age are dim, 
 They shall this great salvation see ! " 
 
CANTO IV. 
 
 THE HAREEM. 
 
 Thank God, the lingering sun hath set at last ! 
 
 The daily task is o'er ; 
 Another long, long day of exile past ! 
 
 Oh, that there were no more ! 
 
 What though yon glorious western sky cloth blaze 
 
 With purple, gold, and green, 
 While the east trembles with those opal rays 
 
 By northern eyes unseen ! 
 
 What though from the transparent heavens so clear 
 
 The stars are stooping low ! 
 The greeting of their smile, that comes so near, 
 
 Seems but to mock my woe. 
 
THE HAEEEM. 57 
 
 Ye northern skies, your light is gray and cold, 
 
 But dearer far to me 
 Than all the splendors that I now behold 
 
 In heaven, eartli, air and sea ! 
 
 Thou isle, where innocence and peace so long 
 
 Have kept their holiest rest, 
 Forgive me that, a child, I did thee wrong, 
 
 Asking a soil more blest ! 
 
 Oft by some stinted shrub 1 pensive stood, 
 
 And dreamed of giant trees 
 That proudly soared aloft, and swung abroad 
 
 Their branches to the breeze. 
 
 Now o'er my head a leafy roof doth rise 
 
 For sinless Eden meet, . 
 Dropping its golden fruit as from the skies, 
 
 In clusters at my feet. 
 
58 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 But one poor bush that decks our cottage-mound, 
 
 My mother's constant care, 
 Than all these palms with grace and beauty crowned, 
 
 Were to my eye raiore fair. 
 
 Here brightly blooming flowers of countless dyes 
 
 Wide gardens gayly paint ; 
 Sadly I view them with unjoying eyes, 
 
 Till with their perfume faint. 
 
 Oh, give me but for these the pale wild rose 
 
 Found once in many a day 
 Among our downs, in some deep fold hid close. 
 
 Where childhood loved to stray. 
 
 Cease, cease thy mournful plaint, O nightingale, 
 
 Singing in yonder tree ! 
 Not half so dear thy song as the familiar wail 
 
 Of my own native sea. 
 
THE HAEEEM. 59 
 
 Ye sparkling fountains, that with patient flow 
 
 Feed all these shining rills, 
 Your ceaseless murmur, melancholy, low, 
 
 My soul with anguish fills. 
 
 For in your voice I hear the unending moan 
 
 Of father, mother mild. 
 Who now sit broken-hearted and alone, 
 
 Despairing for their child. 
 
 O God ! and must I never more behold 
 
 My blessed island home ! 
 Ne'er comfort more my parents now grown old 
 
 With waiting till I come ! 
 
 Last night methought my mother softly pressed 
 
 Her hand upon my head ; 
 She looked not sad, but on her lips did rest 
 
 The smile worn by the dead. 
 
60 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 O mother, mother, if thou dost indeed 
 
 Stand by the throne of God, 
 From thy poor captive child, with Him, oh, plead, 
 
 That He will take life's load ! 
 
 Such were the thoughts that shook the breast . 
 
 Of Melleff as he sat at rest. 
 
 Leaning against a stately palm 
 
 In the soft twilight's hallowed calm. 
 
 Within the garden he had toiled 
 
 All day, and now from work assoiled, 
 
 His whole soul flies to the far north, 
 
 To the dear sod that gave him birth. 
 
 His heart no hope of ransom cheers, 
 
 Full well he knows if parents' tears 
 
 Could pay the 2)rice, he soon were free. 
 
 But ah, their fatal poverty ! 
 
 Daughter of wealth ! a moment stay, 
 Ere to the dance thou haste away ! 
 
THE HAREEM. (}] 
 
 One little stone that none would miss 
 From the bright band that clasps thy hair-^ 
 So many more are shining there — 
 Would lightly purchase all the bliss 
 Of home and freedom for the boy, 
 And fill his ftxther's house with joy. 
 Thou canst not give if? go thy way, 
 Tread fiist the festive measure gay, 
 Yet oh ! look to thy soul, ere He, 
 The prisoner's friend, in anger says, 
 " What thou didst not for one of these 
 That didst thou also not for me ! " 
 
 From the proud Christian maiden's frown. 
 To misbelieving Fatmeh turn, 
 Who, from the lattice of her bower, 
 Observes the captive at this hour 
 So woful sad. " Gerda," she cries. 
 With look and tone that speak surprise, 
 " Why doth the Christian slave still weep? 
 
62 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Doth Mustapha, then, fail to keep 
 
 My father's oft enjoined behest, 
 
 That he should lack nor food nor rest ? 
 
 Thou, too, when first the tale I told 
 
 Of Melleflf and his hair of gold. 
 
 And thou didst go to prove my word, 
 
 With pity deep thy heart seemed stirred, 
 
 Nor from thy questions couldst thou leave ; 
 
 Wherefore now suffer him to grieve 1 " 
 
 Not southern night, descending fast, 
 Could shade so dark and sudden cast 
 As o'er old Gerda's features passed — 
 Then with a sigh, she answered grave, 
 " Tears are the pastime of the slave ! " 
 
 Young Fatmeh on her face still gazed. 
 With questioning eye and thought amazed. 
 " Do all slaves weep '? " at length she cried ; 
 " Not all " — the aged nurse replied, 
 
THE HAREEM. 63 
 
 " For some so long have worn the cham, 
 And sighed and wept and prayed in vain 
 For freedom, home and friends, that they 
 At last grown helpless, old and gray, 
 Dry joyfully each burning tear 
 To see the welcome grave so near." 
 
 The loving child her white arms flung 
 Around her nurse, and sobbing hung 
 On her old neck — " Say, Gerda, say, 
 ^Youldst thou thy Fatmeh leave to-day 
 For home and friends so fir away 1 " 
 
 " Child of my soul ; * nay ! for I've none. 
 Those that I loved are long forgone. 
 For all the North hath left, thy kiss. 
 My gentle child, I would not miss. 
 Of all my kin, a single heart 
 Still beats, and his a bitter part — 
 
 * A common Oriental epithet for an adopted child. 
 
64 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Or do I dream — so far from youth 
 And joy removed that dreams seem truth ! 
 But such sad talking let us leave — 
 I promised thee a tale this eve." 
 
 •' First from my hair these pearls unbind ; 
 Thou say'st they are of wealth untold ; 
 In the bazaars, couldst thou not find 
 One that for them would give me gold 1 " 
 
 " Thou hast thy mother's heart, fond child ! 
 But speak no more, thy thought is wild. 
 List to me, rather, while I tell 
 What once an Arab maid befell." 
 
 " Nay, Gerda ! but when late we passed 
 Where o'er the dead the aloe blooms, 
 While they beneath are sleeping fast — 
 Thou bad'st me mark, among the tombs, 
 One called the Christian lady's grave — 
 Now tell me, wns she, too, a slave ? " 
 
THE HAREEM. 65 
 
 THE TOMB OF THE CHRISTIAN PRINCESS.* 
 
 Long ago a noble lady dwelt in furthest Frankistan, 
 
 Of whose wondrous beauty tidings to remotest kingdoms 
 
 ran ; 
 Princes sued her royal father for his peerless daughter's hand 
 All in vain ; the heart- free Ellen would not hear of marriage- 
 band. 
 
 Once adown the garden walked she, fresh as Emily the 
 
 bright 
 Seen, as chants the English rhymer, for the first time by 
 
 Arcite ; 
 And, like her, she plucked the roses, ere the sun had kissed 
 
 away 
 Half the tears they shed in darkness for the absent lord of 
 
 day. 
 
 * " The Tomb of the Christian Princess" is founded on a popular legend 
 related bv Prax in the Bevue de V Orient, for November, 1849. 
 
66 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Through the leafy aisles she floated, checking her own carol 
 sweet, 
 
 While the morning hymn of nature rose so holy and com- 
 plete ; 
 
 And with such a smile she listened to each silvery-warbling 
 bird. 
 
 Well it seemed she knew the meaning of the joyous notes 
 she heard. 
 
 Now the outer wall she reaches, where so close the ivy clings, 
 But a garland scarcely snatches, ere a wicket open swings, 
 And a wretched troop, whose ankles bear the badge of 
 
 heaviest woe. 
 Through the gateway roughly driven, to their daily task- 
 work go. 
 
 All unseen the princess glided to the laurel's thickest shade. 
 On the turbaned captives gazing, half with wonder, half 
 afraid. 
 
THE HAKEEM. 67 
 
 Long she stands, as if enchanted — what has wrought that 
 
 sudden spell ? 
 In her eye are love and pity — is it Freya's miracle '^ * 
 
 Toward the palace then she turned her, but with languid foot 
 
 and slow, 
 Minding now nor bird nor blossom, nor the bees that mur 
 
 mur low. 
 Some new thought her soul oppresses — how an hour hath 
 
 changed that face ! 
 Late there shone but careless pleasance, now misease usurps 
 
 its place. 
 
 Paler grew the gentle Ellen as the listless days rolled by, 
 Till the sad cheer of his daughter caught the troubled father's 
 
 eye. 
 " Say, my child, what is't that grieves thee ? where the glad 
 
 some step and smile, 
 With which thou wert wont to meet me, and my weary 
 
 cares beguile ? 
 
 * lu the Scandinavian mythologj, Freya is the goddess of love. 
 
68 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 " Weep not for me, loving father, but so thickly comes my 
 
 breath, 
 On my heart is such a pressure — it must be the hand of 
 
 death ! 
 Ere I go, one boon I pray thee, for the love thou bearest me, 
 For the sake of blessed Mary, set thy Moorish captives free ! 
 
 *' There is one they call Abdallah, royal is his step and eye — 
 Once he was the lord of Tunis, thou hast marked his bearing 
 
 high. 
 And hast read in every gesture, he was Allah's slave, not 
 
 thine — 
 When I lie beside my mother, give him from my hand this 
 
 line." 
 
 And the sleep no sorrow breaketh then the lovely Ellen slept, 
 
 And the promise made her dying faithfully the father kept. 
 
 Soon the Arabs o'er the desert their fleet steeds are spur- 
 ring fast. 
 
 High the yellow sand-clouds tossing, like the Simoom's 
 smothering blast. 
 
' THE HAKEEM. 69 
 
 But before the prince Abdallah sought again his native land, 
 He had read the faint lines written by the passing maiden's 
 
 hand. 
 " I have loved thee, noble stranger, but not better than my 
 
 faith, 
 Lo the proof ! I give thee freedom, and remain alone with 
 
 death." 
 
 " Go thou to the tomb that holds me, from my hand a casket 
 
 take, 
 And the jewels that thou findest — for the Christian princess' 
 
 sake — 
 Buy with them the Christian captives that among thy people 
 
 mourn ; 
 Let them to their home and kindred and their fathers' God 
 
 return ! " 
 
 Straight he seeks the narrow chamber, sacred to fair Ellen's 
 
 rest; 
 But what tongue may speak the wonder that affrays his 
 
 startled breast ! 
 
70 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 There no Christian maid reposes, but a Moslem stiff and cold, 
 And a rosary wrought in Mecca fast the rigid fingers hold.* 
 
 As he stood amazed,' bewildered, words that came not 
 
 through the ear 
 To Abdallah's soul were whispered, " Take the chaplet, do 
 
 not fear ! " 
 Hastily the beads he snatches from the dead man's grasp, 
 
 and flies, 
 On the pinions love had furnished, to the land of cloudless 
 
 skies. 
 
 Soon he trod the streets of Tunis — -but she knew her lord 
 
 no more — 
 And to Zeitun's mosque he hastened, Allah's Oneness to 
 
 adore. 
 As he stooped, the dusty sandal at the sacred door to leave, 
 Suddenly a hand ungentle seized him rudely hj the sleeve. 
 
 * The Mohammedan uses a rosary in enumerating the repetitions oc- 
 curring in his prayers. This rosary is composed of ninety-nine beads ol 
 wood, coral, or seeds, and is separated into three equal divisions by other 
 beads of a peculiar form. 
 
THE HAREEM. 71 
 
 " Whence hast thoii that chaplet, stranger ? by the Pro- 
 phet's head I swear, 
 
 'Tis my father's — tombs to rifle, misbeliever, dost thou 
 dare 1 " 
 
 To the judge they drag Abdallah ; straight the cadi gives 
 command 
 
 To undo the vault sepulchral, and around the grave they 
 stand, 
 
 But fall back in speechless terror — there, instead of Moslem 
 
 shorn, 
 Lieth calm a smiling lady, fair as Houri heavenly born ! 
 [n her hand she held a casket, and her face shone like the 
 
 day 
 For a moment when Abdallah gently took the trust away. 
 
 Long he listened hoping, praying, for some sound of coming 
 
 breath. 
 But in vain — fair was the sleeper, yet she slept the sleep of 
 
 death. 
 
T2 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Soflt he spread the turf above her, set the aloe on her breast — 
 ' Had not Moonkir shown her favor, since he brought her 
 there to rest ? ' 
 
 Then Abdallah did her bidding, and the Christian slaves dis- 
 missed ; 
 
 Yet through life he left not weeping for the love he so had 
 missed. 
 
 Twice two hundred times the date-tree proud hath donned 
 her ruby crown. 
 
 Since beside the stranger-lady, old and worn he laid him down. 
 
 Still the story is remembered, and they say the princess lies 
 All unchanged in her first beauty, but secure from mortal eyes. 
 From the tomb a light proceedeth, that would blind witli 
 
 deadly pain, 
 Such as guards the Prophet's daughter from the gazer's 
 
 glance profane.* 
 
 * A common superstition among the Mohammedans ascribes this 
 miraculous power, not only to the tomb of the Prophet himself, but to that 
 of "the Lady Fatmeh," his daughter, as well. 
 
CAISTTO V. 
 
 THE EANSOM. 
 
 While thus his wretched child doth bear 
 The day's long toil, the night's unrest, 
 By strangers pitied and oppressed, 
 How doth it wath the father fare 1 
 We saw but lately, when his soul 
 Was dark with woe, God's angel roll 
 The stone of his dead hopes away, 
 And bid him rise to toil and pray ! 
 And we, perchance, may find him still 
 Waiting upon his wonted hill. 
 
 Yes, there he stands, but not alone ; 
 
 A silent group is gathered near, 
 4 
 
74 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 In every face a sorrow shown, 
 In every eye a glistening tear, 
 And o'er the gray and rocking sea 
 They look as earnestly as he. 
 For on the horizon's distant verge 
 Beyond the crescent wall of foam — 
 Thrown np by the untiring surge — 
 That bends around their island-home, 
 Lighted by sunset's lustrous smile, 
 They still can see a snowy pile 
 Of canvas like a summer cloud ; * 
 It bears the son beloved away 
 From the poor mother, old and bowed. 
 Who now with pallid lips doth pray ; 
 It bears the husband from the arms 
 Of the lone wife here left to weep. 
 And from his first-born's baby-charms 
 Now on its mother's breast asleep ; 
 
 * See Appendix VI. 
 
THE EANSOM. 75 
 
 It bears the lover from the maid, 
 
 To whom his only vows are given, 
 
 And from w^hose cheek the blood doth fade, 
 
 All backward to the full heart driven. 
 
 O, Poverty, thy rule" is stern ! 
 'Tis hard beneath thy frown to live. 
 And yet from thee thy children learn 
 The noblest lesson life can give, 
 The grace most glorious in the eyes 
 Of God and man — self-sacrifice ! 
 When He, the Holy, came to show 
 The way our mortal feet should go, 
 If, one with Him, our souls would be 
 From torturing self forever free. 
 Through thy low vale His footsteps led, 
 On thy cold lap His sacred head 
 Was wont to find less certain rest 
 Than beast in lair, or bird in nest. 
 
76 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 These women, clad in sable Aveeds,* 
 That stand upon the hillock here, 
 While o'er the wave yon vessel speeds 
 Freighted with all they hold most dear — 
 Think not they need our pitying tears ! 
 Though want may force the loved away, 
 And they be left for weary years, 
 Yet they have learned to trust and pray. 
 Soon each will seek her quiet cot, 
 And there to God, on bended knee, . 
 Unmurmuring at her lonely lot, 
 Commit the wanderer o'er the sea ; 
 Then peaceful sleep, then patient rise 
 To labors fresh, fresh sacrifice. 
 
 Even now the last dark form is gOiie, 
 And Wolfe, the aged, stands alone. 
 More wasted still that stooping fi-ame, 
 The pallor on his brow the same. 
 
 * The women of these islands always wear a mourning dress while 
 their friends are at sea. 
 
THE EA15-S0M. 
 
 And yet since first we saw that eye 
 A clearer beam it sure hath caught ; 
 It turns not now so dreamily, 
 As if uncertain what it sought ! 
 But firmly, consciously doth rest 
 Upon that cloudlet in the west. 
 And well may he with hope and prayer 
 Follow the barque fast fading there. 
 The frail thread of her fate is one 
 With that of his unhappy son. 
 
 He rose, when God said to the night 
 Of his despair ; ' Let there be light ! ' 
 And gathered all his little store 
 Of hoarded wealth to count it o'er. 
 One precious chain of shining gold — 
 His mother's gift, and she had told 
 How many generations past 
 Had worn the relic, she the last. 
 
 77 
 
78 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 He prized it for her sake, how much ! 
 
 But at this moment not even such 
 
 A thought could move. He saw with joy 
 
 How far 'twould aid to save his boy. 
 
 Another ! ah, but this had laced 
 
 The bodice green his Mary wore 
 
 The hour when first a wife she blessed 
 
 The home that knoweth her no more ; 
 
 And on her happy bosom lay 
 
 Those bright medallions, hanging still 
 
 Upon the links they graced that day — 
 
 Slowly the tears his sad eyes fill ; 
 
 But on our isle even grief is calm ; 
 
 An instant held he in his palm 
 
 The priceless chain, and then beside 
 
 His mother's, laid this of his bride. 
 
 His little flock must now be sold, 
 
 His household stuff all turned to gold ; 
 
 The friendly neighbors bring their gains 
 
 To swell the sum he thus obtains. 
 
THE KANSOM. 79 
 
 Into this treasury too was cast 
 
 The widow's mite, nor came she last. 
 
 The poor lorn creature we have seen 
 
 At sunset on the sandy shore 
 
 Brought all the riches that had been 
 
 Her own, and first her mother's dower; 
 
 A chain — our island maidens' pride — 
 
 And rings of antique form, beside 
 
 A silver watch her son had brought 
 
 From some strange land, she knew not what. 
 
 " Take these, good neighbor ! I am reft 
 
 Of sons and daughters ; none are left 
 
 To claim them when He calls me home, 
 
 And where I go these cannot come." 
 
 The goodly ransom, now all told, 
 
 A hand within that ship doth hold — 
 
 A trusty hand, pledged o'er the sea 
 
 To bear it safe to Barbary. 
 
 Alas! old man, who watchest now 
 
 With chastened joy and pious vow 
 
80 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Yon point that, while we speak, away 
 Has melted in the twilight gray, 
 Thy Gracious Maker hides from thee. 
 In love, the things which yet must be ! 
 And we — were it not well to look 
 No further now in Fate's dark book, 
 But turn a backward glance the while 
 On the past fortunes of our isle ! 
 
 Stand we by Wolfe upon the knoll, and turn us to the sea ; 
 
 There, where the waves like breakers roll in foam so wild 
 and free, 
 
 Stood the first church the old man knew, though parish re- 
 cords say 
 
 That many a goodlier one before the tide had swept away. 
 
 Even yet the shepherds deem they hear, of a still Easter 
 morn, 
 
 The chiming of the bells full clear from the deep waves up- 
 borne. 
 
THE EANSOM. 81 
 
 And that at midniglit when they watch by some dear pass- 
 ing soul, 
 The listening ear may faintly catch a low and muffled toll. 
 'Tis said, too, when the sea is calm, that ofttimes may be 
 
 seen 
 Not only the lost house of God, but buried homes of men ; 
 That still upright beneath the flood as fair to view they stand 
 As when they rose upon the isle, fresh from the builder's 
 
 hand.* 
 But to my tale. In that first church, upon Wolfe's infant 
 
 head 
 With simple rite, the man of God Christ's covenant waters 
 
 shed. 
 There with his parents, when a boy, from week to week he 
 
 went 
 To pray for pardon of his sins through him whom God hath 
 
 sent. 
 
 * It is reported of many of the sunken hamlets, that at times their 
 church-bells are heard to ring beneath the water, and that in still weather, 
 theh- houses can be discerned in the deep. The bells of a sunken village 
 in North Friesland are said to chime on Easter morning. 
 
 4* 
 
82 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 There, men and angels witnessing, he stood in manhood's 
 
 pride, 
 And wedded with a soul-deep vow his orphan Iceland bride. 
 
 But all these years the wasting shore was crumbling, day 
 
 by day ; 
 With purpose sure, the cruel foe aneared his trembling prey. 
 Each art the island knew was tried the hallowed house to 
 
 save; 
 In vain — one night of wind and tide, it sunk beneath the 
 
 wave. 
 Sadly at dawn they gathered there to see the ruin wrought ; 
 The fearful sight to every heart a painful shudder brought. 
 The church was gone, the churchyard, too, alas ! all washed 
 
 away, 
 There scattered on the moaning beach, the broken coffins lay ; 
 Some were still hanging to the bank from which the soil had 
 
 slid, 
 The mouldering skeleton within seen through the shattered 
 
 lid; 
 
THE RANSOM. 83 
 
 And bones, that loving friends had laid full tenderly to rest, 
 Swept far away, were rudely rocked on the rough ocean's 
 
 breast. 
 Shocked into silence, lo ! that group a moment fixed as 
 
 stone ! 
 Then sudden every bosom heaves with a half-stifled groan. 
 Not one but sees some sleeping friend torn from the quiet 
 
 bed, 
 Where he had hoped to lie in peace till God should wake 
 
 the dead. 
 The parent mourns the child anew ; children for parents 
 
 w^eep ; 
 And spouse for spouse — their treasures safe not e'en the 
 
 grave will keep. 
 Poor Wolfe sought vainly, as he held his trembling Mary 
 
 fast. 
 For the pale sod that covered all save MellefF, now their 
 
 last.* 
 
 * The cemeteries are often washed away, and the bodies of the dead 
 are not unfrequently removed to a more secure resting-place when such a 
 catastrophe threatens. 
 
84r WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 At length the pastor mildly spoke; " little flock," he said, 
 " Wherefore are ye cast down, and why are ye disquieted ? 
 The body that we sow is not the body that shall be — 
 So writes the apostle unto whom was shown the mystery — 
 With such a form as pleaseth Him our God shall clothe His 
 
 saints, 
 He needeth not these poor remains — cease then your vain 
 
 complaints ! 
 Already round his radiant throne the Lord's redeemed 
 
 stand, 
 Nor fire nor flood nor death nor hell shall pluck them from 
 
 His hand. 
 Sorrow not o'er these wave-washed bones, but rather let us 
 
 pray 
 For everlasting freedom from the galling bonds of clay ! " 
 They prayed ; then to their common toil with lighter hearts 
 
 returned, 
 But long and deeply for their church, pastor and people 
 
 mourned. 
 
THE EANSOM. 
 
 85 
 
 One anxious thought filled every mind— anew how should 
 
 they build ? 
 No block of stone, no beam of wood, their naked soil doth 
 
 yield; 
 All must be brought from other shores, nor would, for 
 
 years, suffice 
 The produce of their little fold to pay the needful price. 
 One only source of gain, beside, their barren isle can boast ; 
 When mighty winds, for many days, the angry waves have 
 
 tossed, 
 Till the vast chambers of the deep are shaken to their base, 
 And then the weary sea retires to his accustomed place. 
 Along his track, retreating, lo ! the sparkling amber spread,* 
 Kent and cast upward by the storm from ocean's jewelled 
 
 bed! 
 Here the pure drops long ages gone were known as Freya's 
 
 tears. 
 And still, passed doAvn from sire to son, the shining treasure 
 
 bears 
 
 * See Appendix YII. 
 
86 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 The ancient name, though long forgot the tale from whence 
 
 it sprmig — 
 The memory of Odur's spouse has perished even from song ! 
 Yet not less valued than of old is the fair merchandise, 
 And for our frugal islanders their choicest stores it buys. 
 All these they gladly will resign ; henceforth it is their care 
 To consecrate the wealth so gained to rear a house of prayer. 
 A few short years of sacrifice their lost church may replace ; 
 The thought sheds joy on every heart, a smile on every face. 
 Whene'er the warring elements exhausted sleep once more. 
 Eager they seek the glittering spoil along the dripping shore. 
 Some search the channel's oozy bed left for a moment dry, 
 While others higher on the beach a safer fortune try. 
 And some with bolder foot press close on the receding flood, 
 Still watchful lest their faithless foe turn back in angry 
 
 mood. 
 Children o'erleap the narrow creeks, light bounding to and 
 
 fro, 
 With panting breath and burning cheeks, each new found 
 
 prize to show. 
 
THE EANSOM. 87 
 
 Their quest they cease not till the tide, repenting his retreat, 
 Turns suddenly and towards their wharves drives them with 
 
 flying feet. 
 Then Avith glad hearts the glowing hoard they to the pastor 
 
 bear, 
 That he in their increasing store their modest joy may 
 
 share. 
 
 So months passed on, and all the gains thus gathered from 
 
 the sea 
 Formed still a treasury lighter far than their necessity. 
 The autumn, too, came on apace, and they could meet no 
 
 more 
 To worship, where the church once stood, upon the open 
 
 shore. 
 Yet wintry tempests, gathering strength, might scatter on 
 
 the strand 
 The golden peltbles so desired with a more lavish hand. 
 Such was the talk one cold gray morn, as they drew near 
 
 the sea 
 
88 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Still hoarse with chafing all the night, though now no wind 
 
 was free. 
 A child's swift foot that blind pursued the eye's more dis- 
 tant aim, 
 Struck sharply ^on an iron ring that well might wonder 
 
 claim. 
 That child was MellefF, still the first when Fortune smiled 
 
 or frowned, 
 And ever for adventure strange o'er all the isle renowned. 
 They dug, and lo ! a heavy box, strong and of curious form, 
 Was lifted from the solid drift packed round it by the 
 
 storm. 
 They climbed the do^\'ns, and every shoal searched with a 
 
 careful eye, 
 Even to the horizon's utmost verge, where wrecks were wont 
 
 to lie. 
 Canvas nor mast nor hulk were there, and wasting rust told 
 
 plain 
 That long upon the lonely beach that ancient chest had 
 
 lain. 
 
THE EANSOM. 89 
 
 Great was the marvel, greater still ^Yllen on their dazzled sight 
 Flashed all the riches hid within, the gold, the silver bright, 
 So fairly wrought that many deemed they saw the precious 
 
 hoard, 
 That cunning dwarfs (as sagas tell) beneath the downs had 
 
 stored.* 
 
 They sent the tidings far and wide, but owner never came, 
 Message or letter none were sent the costly prize to claim. 
 Who knoweth but the same wild surf that here the chest 
 
 had rolled. 
 Choked into silence every voice that might its tale have 
 
 told ? 
 At length the glittering toys were sold. O ! what a joy to 
 
 find 
 The little church might now be built for which they so had 
 
 pined. 
 For greater safety from the sea, another site they chose 
 Behind the downs, and rapidly the humble walls arose. 
 
 * A similar incident actually occurred on one of these islands. 
 
90 WOLFE OF THE liNOLL. 
 
 Years passed ; full many a wharf had bowed before the 
 
 tyrant flood, 
 And still unharmed by wind or wave that sanctuary stood. 
 Yet, ah ! such changes time had wrought among the shifting 
 
 downs, 
 That in a foe till now unfeared a sure destruction frowns. 
 In vain with tireless zeal they strive to avert the stern decree, 
 Onward the mighty sandwave rolls resistless as the sea. 
 Slowly it creepeth up the walls, it gathers round the door, 
 Sifts through the casements' guarded seams, and thickly 
 
 strews the floor. 
 Long did they clear, from week to week, the swelling heaps 
 
 away, 
 Meeting within those hallowed courts each blessed sabbath 
 
 day. 
 But ever higher rose the sand, defying human strength ; 
 It reached the seats, the pastor's desk, and choked the door 
 
 at length. 
 
 * For an account of a church buried in this way by the sand, see Ap- 
 pendix VIII. 
 
THE RAl^SOM. 
 
 91 
 
 To a new entrance, thus enforced, a window they transform ; 
 Still is the shelter of the roof more welcome than the storm. 
 There at the patient pastor's feet gathered the little band 
 Of tried and faithful worshippers, no cushion but the sand. 
 There lifted they their hearts to Him who once in meekness 
 
 made 
 Himself the Son of man, and had not where to lay his head. 
 
 O child of wealth ! the portals high of a cathedral pile 
 Stand wide for thee, and thou dost sweep through the long 
 
 pillared aisle, 
 With dainty foot, and jewelled hand, in raiment rich and rare. 
 To rest on swelling velvet soft, through a brief hour of 
 
 prayer. 
 Yet to have faith like one of these, if thou but knew its 
 
 worth, 
 Thou'dst gladly give thy place for his upon the dusty earth. 
 
 And thou to whom the lines have fallen God's word to 
 minister 
 
92 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 In pleasant places to the rich, of thine own soul have care ! 
 See that thou miss not the bright crown of glory only worn 
 By those svho first the bitter cross of sacrifice have borne. 
 Oppressed with solitude and want, behold thy brother stand, 
 Feeding with zeal the humble flock committed to his hand ! 
 Possessed, it may be, of a mind as richly stored as thine, 
 Gifted with kindling eloquence, w^here thought and grace 
 
 combine. 
 That well might challenge the applause of audience more fit, 
 And draw admiring crowds to praise his wisdom and his 
 
 wit : 
 Yet, prompt to do his Master's will, he asks of man no meed^ 
 Of such a stimulus to toil hast thou as little need ? 
 Boldly against a nation's sin thou dost not spare to cry ; 
 'Tis well ! God help thee ! lift thy voice in trumpet tones 
 
 on high. 
 Until our land repent her crimes ! — and yet who will not 
 
 own 
 'Tis easier far such war to w^age where thousands shoiit, 
 
 " well done ! " 
 
THE EANSOM. 93 
 
 Than thus, an exile from the world, in such a waste obscure, 
 Deatli threatening in each rising gale, with patience to endure 
 Privation, labor, loneliness, no witness to applaud, 
 Save his own conscience and the eye, all-seeing, of his God. 
 
 The autumn wind, that mournfully had sighed all day, sobbed 
 
 still 
 More loudly and grew passionate as night's gray shadows 
 
 fell. 
 Low mist-like clouds rolled rapidly over the evening sky, 
 And a yet darker mask was seen through their thin drapery. 
 So thick that neither moon nor stars could pierce it with a 
 
 ray, 
 Nor through its heavy folds had shot one beam of parting 
 
 day. 
 Like a tired beast of prey, for hours the sluggish sea had 
 
 slept, 
 And scarce would heed the driving winds that o'er its bosom 
 
 swept. 
 
94 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 But wnen the gathering darkness came, its deep and sullen 
 roar, 
 
 More dreadful than the shrieking gale, shook all the trem- 
 bling shore. 
 
 Long, long, and fearful was the night, hut when, with languid 
 smile 
 
 And tardy wing, the morning rose upon the drenched isle, 
 
 The winds were hushed ; not so the dash of the flir sound- 
 ing sea. 
 
 Toward which the anxious shepherds looked with kindly 
 sympathy. 
 
 Tliere, beating on a fital shoal, a noble vessel lay, 
 
 And high above her stately decks was tossed the snow-white 
 spray. 
 
 A moment more, a sturdy boat, strong arms at every oar, 
 
 Is flying toward the stranded ship where loud the breakers 
 roar. 
 
 Now, God be thanked ! the gallant craft is not a hopeless 
 wreck ; 
 
 The weary crew arc standing safe upon the sloping deck. 
 
THE RANSOM. 95 
 
 With shouts they hail the barque that braves for them so 
 
 wild a sea, 
 Bold Wolfe, the pilot, pledged himself to set the vessel free 
 At evening tide — so well he knew what change of wind was 
 
 near — 
 And bade the troubled mariners dismiss each anxious fear. 
 At sunset rose the swelling tide, the breeze set from the 
 
 land. 
 Another hour, and the good ship was floated from the sand, 
 And, wisely steered by him who knew the perils of that 
 
 shore. 
 Threaded the crooked channel safe, and stood to sea once 
 
 Weeks passed — broad broken bands of ice behind the island 
 
 stretch. 
 So that however great the need, none might the mainland 
 
 reach. 
 Though want, disease and death draw nigh, succor they may 
 
 have none. 
 
96 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Other than this poor sod affords, except from God alone.* 
 And yet their childlike faith in Him forbids each anxious 
 
 fear, 
 For though they know their brethren far, they feel their 
 
 Father near. 
 With patient, but with longing hearts, they wait the coming 
 
 spring ; 
 Even to this barren wilderness new pleasures doth she bring. 
 True, here she comes not garlanded with the bright flowers 
 
 she loves, 
 And drawn by throngs of singing birds, like Venus by her 
 
 doves ; 
 But smoother seas and brighter skies her gentle heralds are, 
 And yet more welcome still the news she brings from friends 
 
 afar. 
 
 * In the autumn the single wharfs are often separated from each other 
 by the tide, and in the winter, the ice sometimes cuts them off from the 
 mainland for weeks together. The isolation of the Halligs is most deeply 
 felt in case of sickness. They are then obliged to send across the oozy 
 flats, a distance of twenty or thirty miles, for medical advice and attend- 
 ance, but even this is possible only in favorable weather. — ■Weigelt,die 
 Noi'dfriesischen Inseln. 20. 
 
THE EANSOM. 97 
 
 Parents, whose hardy sons have sought their fortune on the 
 deep, 
 
 Maidens, whose lovers toil abroad while they must wait and 
 weep, 
 
 The pastor linked to the great world by every tender tie 
 
 That binds the memory to the past — all these for tidings sigh. 
 
 They come — alas 'tis ever so ! some Aveep while others smile ; 
 
 Yet to the hand of "Wolfe was brought a joy for all the isle. 
 
 The wealthy owner of the ship late stranded on this coast, 
 
 And which but for his timely aid had surely there been lost, 
 
 Such generous recompense has sent for succor promptly 
 given, 
 
 As well may serve to rear a house to the great God of 
 Heaven. 
 
 This his first thought. With clamorous tongue he pleads 
 no special right. 
 
 But in one purpose, with one voice, like brothers all unite. 
 
 " The Lord hath touched the stranger's heart. How won- 
 drous are his ways ! 
 
 Another temple to His name with joyful hands we'll raise." 
 
98 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 'Twas done. Wild, desolating floods have o'er the island 
 rolled 
 
 Full oft since then, not sparing even the shepherd and his 
 fold. 
 
 That church still stands, and, to the eyes of those who wor- 
 ship there, 
 
 Its simple walls and humble spire are objects not less fair 
 
 Than Zion's towers and bulwarks seemed to Israel's shep- 
 herd king, 
 
 When by her glorious beauty moved such strains of praise 
 to sing. 
 
CANTO VI. 
 
 THE CAEAVAN. 
 
 Land of the pyramid ! land of the palm ! 
 Fanning us now with thy breezes of balm, 
 Lovely thou art, and yet stranger than fair ! 
 Glamour is with thee, and whoso shall dare 
 Look on thy beauty will know never more 
 Rest, till the throb of his last pulse is o'er ! * 
 Long since thy vassals, why shudder we then, 
 Feeling thy breath on our foreheads again '? 
 Angels of God ! that in nightly patrol 
 Wheel round our planet from pole unto pole, 
 Hovering now o'er yon desolate isle, 
 Now where the date-groves of Barbary smile, 
 
 * Niemand vvandelt unter Palmen uugestraft. 
 
100 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 There, whispering soft to the meek as they sleep, 
 
 Here, frowning darkly on rol3bers that creep 
 
 Forth in the midnight, dividing their prey — 
 
 Do ye not sorrow to turn you away 
 
 Thus, from the dwelling of peace, to the shore 
 
 Echoing with tumult and strife evermore — 
 
 Hither, where hearts through their pride have grown 
 
 cold, 
 Shrivelled and seared by the lust after gold ? 
 Oh, not the brightness, that Israel's way 
 Guided in glory by night and by day, 
 Fired him with courage unflinching to bear 
 Pains that here lightly for Mammon they dare ! 
 Man's eager hand from that glittering fleece 
 Fear cannot hold, nor sweet pity release ! 
 Yet will we follow where Melleff', the slave, 
 Pineth for home, and imploreth a grave. 
 
 Behold Tunisia's towers once more, 
 See through her Gate of Plenty pour 
 
THE CARAVAN. 101 
 
 Camels and men, a ceaseless tide, 
 First a dense line, then — spreading wide 
 Like a full stream that doth o'erflow 
 Its banks, and fill the vale below — 
 They roll adown the rocky steep, 
 And the wide olive-plains o'ersweep. 
 
 To-day the merchant caravan * 
 Its yearly march to far Soudan 
 Begins. Beneath a flaming- sky 
 Its long and perilous way doth lie 
 O'er Sahara's boundless, pathless plains. 
 Where w^ild, unchanging horror reigns. 
 The adventurer, who shall safely reach 
 Nigritia's border, thence may fetch — 
 The price of trifles worthless nigh 
 To all but the untutored eye. 
 
 * The reader will find a fall account of the organization and march of 
 the great caravans engaged in the Soudan trade, in Le Grand Desert ou 
 Itincraire d'une Caravane du Sahara au pays des Ncgres, par Eugene Dau- 
 mas, et Ausone de Chancel. Paris, 1848. 
 
102 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Or a few handfuls of the weed 
 Scarce sanctioned 1:)y the Moslem creed — 
 Treasures which kings would gladly own. 
 'Neath sacks of gold his camels groan, — 
 Those shining sands the Jinn have rolled 
 From mountain caverns dark and cold, 
 Down crystal streams to plains below, 
 There in the tropic fires to glow ; 
 Her plumes are from the ostrich rent, 
 Nor spared the lordly elephant. 
 Even man — his brother man — the pains 
 Of death must feel, to swell his gains. 
 Tribe against tribe doth lift the spear, 
 None deems a trinket bought too dear. 
 If but some wretched captive may 
 The price with life-long service pay. 
 
 * It was long a question among the doctors of the Mohammedan law 
 whether tobacco was not virtually forbidden to the faithful, as an intox- 
 icating drug. The use of tobacco was made a highly penal offence by 
 some of the Turkish sultans. 
 
THE CARAVAN. 108 
 
 Yet leave such thoughts, and mark how bright 
 
 The landscape glows in morning light ! 
 
 Oh, 'tis a wondrous show and fair, 
 
 The living j^icture painted there ! 
 
 All the \'ast crowd clad in a guise 
 
 Strange to the Frank's unwonted eyes ; 
 
 The scarlet fez, the white bernous, 
 
 The gay keffieh floating loose, 
 
 With its long fringes light and free 
 
 By every breeze tossed gracefully ; 
 
 The sash that in its brilliant folds 
 
 The Arab's choicest treasures holds, 
 
 His yataghan, with massive hilt, 
 
 His heavy pistols richly gilt ; 
 
 The spahi to rough battle bred. 
 
 With tufted lance and mantle red ; 
 
 Wild horsemen flying like the wind, 
 
 Their wide robes streaming far behind ; 
 
 Steeds, whose rich trappings well may vie 
 
 With their gay riders' bravery, 
 
104 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 And in whose kindling eye there glares 
 The same wild light that burns in theirs ; 
 And scarce less prized, with foot as light, 
 The young mehari creamy white, 
 Her saddle with full tassels hung, 
 Her neck with polished cowries strung : 
 There the grave camel pensive stands, 
 As dreaming of the endless sands, 
 That he, with laden step, must tread, 
 The vulture hovering o'er his head. 
 
 But lo, the pacha and his train 
 Wind down the pathway to the plain, 
 Hareem, guard, servants, form his suite. 
 All ordered with a splendor meet 
 For Eastern despot, when he goes 
 In search of pleasure, not of foes. 
 When the date-harvest draweth nigh, 
 It is the pacha's wont to fly 
 From cares of state, awhile to rest 
 
THE CAEAVAN. 105 
 
 In Nefta's * gardens, rich and blest. 
 
 As groves of the Ilesperides, 
 
 Whose golden apples Gods could please. 
 
 There soars the palm of loftiest shoot, 
 
 Of broadest leaf, and choicest fruit ; 
 
 Nor this alone, but every tree, 
 
 Shrub, vine, most prized by luxury. 
 
 Now, when the caravan affords 
 
 Sure guard against the robber-hordes. 
 
 Thither the pleasure-loving Bey 
 
 With friends and followers takes his way. 
 
 To linger there till Spring's bright train 
 
 Makes Tunis paradise again. 
 
 A jet-black courser doth he ride, 
 
 That bears his lord with conscious pride ; 
 
 A nobler steed, as all may see. 
 
 * Nefta, the Negeta of the Romans, a town of 3000 inhabitants, lies 
 south-west of Tunis, and is remarkable for the abundance and excellent 
 quality of its waters, its olives, its dates, its pomegrantes, its melons, and, 
 in short, all the vegetable productions of the climate. The Bey of Tunis 
 has a palace at Nefta, and formerly made it his winter residence. 
 
 5* 
 
106 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Was never bred in Araby. 
 
 And close at hand, the aatoosh shows 
 
 Its silken curtains, that enclose 
 
 The bright Messouda, the young wife 
 
 Of Aali, precious as his life. 
 
 Another — this his daughter bears, 
 
 The lovely Fatmeh, now of years 
 
 More womanly, and with a light 
 
 Of beauty lent to mortal sight 
 
 But rarely. To the childlike grace, 
 
 That ever marks the Eastern maid, 
 
 Is added, in that matchless face, 
 
 Of earnestness a tender shade. 
 
 Whence came that beam of heavenly thought 
 
 To one by book or sage untaught, 
 
 And in a false religion bred 1 
 
 Be not so narrow in thy creed ! 
 
 The God, who Job and Abram loved. 
 
 Although their people knew Him not, 
 
 Who Moab's gentle daughter moved. 
 
THE CARAVAN. 107 
 
 Though Moab had His name forgot, 
 Hath still His own in every land 
 Taught by His voice led by His hand ! 
 
 Old Gerda at the maiden's side 
 Beholds her with a mother's pride ; 
 Their talk is of the late demand 
 Made by Algeria's tyrant lord, 
 Stern Ibrahim, for Fatmeh's hand, 
 To which the Bey will not accord ; 
 And much the grateful daughter fears 
 Her father's pity for her tears 
 May kindle wear's devouring flame — 
 ' Then hers the sin and hers the shame ! ' 
 
 Behind the women came a troop 
 Of slaves — a strangely mingled group, 
 Together brought o'er land and sea, 
 Of every faith and every kin. 
 From Ethiop's darkest ebony 
 To Europe's fairest, rosiest skin. 
 
108 
 
 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Al30ve the rest, young Melleff's form 
 
 Towered high, as cloth the forest tree 
 
 Over the brushwood, though the storm 
 
 May bow its head full heavily. 
 
 His foot is lingering, and his eye 
 
 Turned backward to the Northern sky ; 
 
 For each reluctant step removes 
 
 Him further from the home he loves. 
 
 Alas ! he may no more delay ; 
 
 The caravan is on its way ! 
 
 Allah hoo akbar ! how the ery 
 
 Swells upward, as 'twould rend the sky ! 
 
 Now, now, must friends their farewells speak, 
 
 Not wives — they make the heart too weak. 
 
 Sadly the parting words are said, 
 
 Sires bless their sons, with hands outspread, 
 
 Mothers and sisters weeping loud, 
 
 With their full pitchers, through tlie crowd 
 
 Are hurrying, water fresh to throw 
 
 Upon the camels ore. they go ; 
 
THE CAEAVAN. 109 
 
 Then gather, with a trembling hand 
 And tearfid eye, the trodden sand, 
 Where the departing foot was set. 
 To wear it for an amulet ; 
 Praying it may he Allah's will 
 Their friends should meet no omen ill, 
 No slave deformed, nor men at strife, 
 Nor raven boding loss of life ; 
 Kather a warrior richly clad, 
 Or a young matron gay and glad. 
 Who her soft girdle will unbind, 
 And give it fluttering to the wind, 
 To insure for them a safe return. 
 And for herself a gift to earn. 
 Meanwhile, the human flood sweeps on 
 Through olive-groves, rough steeps adown. 
 Through viny vales, o'er sandy wastes, 
 Alternate, till at length it rests 
 Beneath the walls of old Zowan ; 
 There sleeps the weary caravan. 
 
110 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 O Melleff! had the pictured scroll 
 
 Of Time's strange tale ere met thine eye, 
 
 The anguish of thy fainting soul 
 
 Thou wouldst forget, where thou dost lie, 
 
 Gazing on Zowan's towering crest 
 
 Now in its sunset glory dressed. 
 
 Hark ! from yon frowning heights dost thou not hear 
 Voices unearthly through the gathering gloom, 
 So low and mournful, that the listening ear 
 Knows them but echoes from the hollow tomb 1 
 
 Alas, we cannot catch the words they speak ! 
 From lips of such ethereal essence light, 
 Our heavy, cloddish senses are too weak 
 To guess the mystic meaning half aright. 
 
 Oh, for the gift divine, late dreamers claim, 
 With souls departed converse free to hold ! 
 Then would we bid the dead of olden fame 
 Come nearer, and the mighty past unfold. 
 
THE CAKAVA^. Ill 
 
 Ye stoled priests, who erst majestic trod 
 Those peaks sublime, with hymn and offering due 
 To greet Phoenicia's bright and burning god, 
 When o'er them his first ray and last he threw ; 
 
 Who lingered still, when his glad beams were gone, 
 To welcome great Astarte, queen of Heaven, 
 That, crescent-crowned, shot from her sapphire throne 
 A light which paled the fairest star of even ; 
 
 What Orient land was first your father's nurse ? 
 How had they thus Jehovah's name forgot. 
 Who to the sun gives his appointed course, 
 And the moon seasons that she passes not ? 
 
 Tell us of Dido, young and lovely queen. 
 Wherefore an exile from the Tyrian shore 1 
 Or, was she but a phantom only seen 
 In the fond poet's visionary lore ? 
 
112 WOLPE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Sicilia's tyrant, fierce Agathocles ! 
 How looked great Carthage, when from yonder mount 
 Thou didst survey, with anxious, longing eyes, 
 This tempting vale, and war's stern chances count ? * 
 
 What arts have flourished, ere the Roman sword, 
 With jealous hate accursed, laid all so low ? 
 And was indeed this ancient empire's word 
 As worthless as the faith of nations now 1 
 
 Alas, there comes no answer all the night ! 
 In vain we summon him called African, 
 And him of Utica, though well they might 
 Still linger where their deathless fame began. 
 
 Even Hippo's bishop will not hear our prayer ! 
 He, open once as truth — though we entreat 
 
 * It was from the peak of Zowan that, according to Diodorus Sicukis, 
 Agathocles viewed both Carthage and Hadrumetum in that bold cam- 
 paign, when in the midst of the siege of Syracuse by the Carthaginians, 
 he secretly left the city, aud landed with a considerable force, near the 
 enemy's capital in Africa, and after many brilliant victories, nearly suc- 
 ceeded in capturing it. 
 
THE CAEAVAN. 113 
 
 With passion unto tears — deigns not declare 
 What now he would retract, and what repeat. 
 
 Let us then trace those streams of crystal sheen 
 To their high sources in the mountain's breast. 
 Will they not tell us what strange things have been, 
 Since first their sparkling floods these valleys blest ? 
 
 No ! Amnion's temple * even is silent now, 
 With none to tell who bade its mighty heart 
 ' Send forth the tide, whose full and lengthening flow 
 To thirsty Carthage did its wealth impart. 
 
 % 
 Alas ! we find no teacher 'neath the skies, 
 
 Save giant skeletons of empires dead ! 
 
 May yet some great historic Cuvier rise, 
 
 New light, from these, on ages past to shed ! 
 
 * The temple of Jupiter Ammon, the walls of which are still standing, 
 IS the most important of the ruins ot Zowan. The temple was a sort of 
 chateau cVeau, containing an immense basin for receiving the waters of the 
 fountains, and delivering them into the aqueduct, which, by a circuitous 
 route of fifty miles, conveyed them to Carthage. 
 
114 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 But tlie poor captive had no dreams 
 Like these. Far other were the themes 
 That fed his fancy, as he Lay 
 Dreading yet longing for the day. 
 A vision of the night revealed 
 Ere sleep had once his eye-lids sealed — 
 As then undoubtiiigly he deemed — 
 And which so true, so life-like seemed, 
 Now with confusion clouds his brain — 
 He thinks it o'er and o'er again. 
 Kobed, voiced like woman, it drew near 
 His side and bade him—" Be of cheer ! 
 Nor longer mourn thy mother's fears, 
 For God hath dried her many tears ! 
 The sunset of thy father's day 
 Thou yet may'st brighten — hope and pray ! 
 Even here doth love still watch o'er thee. 
 With purpose strong to set thee free ! " 
 
THE CAKAVAN. 115 
 
 He tried to speak — the figure fast 
 Melted away, and all was passed ! 
 
 Day comes — not with a lingering foot, 
 As in the cliill and misty North, 
 But suddenly its red beams shoot 
 Athwart the sky, and o'er the earth. 
 Then all is bustle in the camp, 
 Of man and beast a hurried tramp. 
 The camels groan with rage and pain 
 To feel the hated load again. 
 The driver's curse rings loud and clear ; 
 O'er all, the voice of the Khrebir, 
 Bidding the lagging line move on. 
 Ere the fresh morning hour be gone. 
 Now, through the fertile vale they wind. 
 But soon must leave its wealth behind. 
 To-day their toilsome journey leads 
 O'er arid sands, through rocky beds 
 Of torrents bare, so rough and steep, 
 
116 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 The camel scarce his foot may keep. 
 But hi the desert, at this hour, 
 The wanderer feels unwonted power. 
 He counteth not the weary leagues, 
 , Recks not of dangers or fatigues. 
 How doth the heart of Ishmael's child 
 Bound, to behold his native wild 
 In the fair morning light spread out ! 
 He fills the air with song and shout ! 
 
 Oh, would' st thou taste the highest bliss 
 That freedom on the soul bestows, 
 Go forth into the wilderness, 
 When the first day -born zephyr blows ! 
 There shalt thou feel thy Psyche-wings 
 Lift thee above all earthly things ! 
 But ah, they shall not bear thee long. 
 For Phoebus, wroth at human pride. 
 Will smite thee, with a beam as strong 
 As that by which young Icarus died. 
 
THE CAEAVAN. 117 
 
 And thou slialt fall to earth again, 
 A mortal \Yrung with want and pain ! 
 
 Even MellefF felt his heart more light 
 Than 'neath the curtain of the night ; 
 There seemed a tender ^^resence near, 
 That with sweet promise filled his ear — 
 Promise of liberty and home ! 
 Thought of his mother scarce was gloom- 
 Not greatly generous hearts complain 
 For those for whom to die is gain. — 
 That midnight whisper, breathing low 
 Of cheer and love — oh, might he know 
 If it were hers ! he will obey, 
 Howe'er it be, and hope and pray ! 
 With clearer brow and footstep strong- 
 He follows now that servile throng. 
 
 Heavily doth the mid-day pass, 
 
 When earth and heaven alike are brass. 
 
118 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 The Arab's song is hushed ; no sound 
 
 Breaketh the awful stilhiess round, 
 
 Save the slow earners drowsy tread 
 
 Across the plain so dry and dead, 
 
 And the sand's rustle, falling back 
 
 As the foot leaves the indented track. 
 
 There is no shade in earth or sky, 
 
 On which to rest the aching eye. 
 
 On every side a fiery glare, 
 
 A quivering glimmer in the air. 
 
 As if even air would waste away 
 
 In that fierce, endless noontide ray ! 
 
 The glowing sands are heavenward whirled 
 
 In lofty columns tinged with flame, 
 
 As if from out the kindling world 
 
 The smoke of its last burning came ! 
 
 Poor Melleff, late of strength so high, 
 
 Now child-weak, faints as death were nigh. 
 
 But see, across his languid face 
 
 A sudden flush of rapture pass ! 
 
THE CAKAVAN. 119 
 
 He lifts his sinking head, and cries : 
 
 " Lo, yonder the fair water lies ! " 
 
 Not gladder those old Greeks than he, 
 
 When first they saw ' the sea ! the sea ! ' 
 
 Alas, O Melleff, thou art mocked! 
 
 Those towers, that lake, those boats wave-rocked, 
 
 Those islands plumed with forests tall — 
 
 They are but empty phantoms all ! 
 
 Would we with words that fancy cure ? 
 
 As well bid the young heart be sure 
 
 Life will not her fair promise keep. 
 
 But leave all eyes at last to weep ! 
 
 Oh, 'tis not thus that we may learn 
 
 Our souls from vanity to turn ; 
 
 Each for himself must test the show, 
 
 And truth by stern experience know. 
 
 Oft must the desert-wanderer prove 
 
 Tlie stately castle, verdant grove. 
 
 The clear, bright lake, the boundless sea, 
 
 To be a cruel mockery, 
 
120 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Before those cheating shadows will 
 Cease with vain hopes his soul to fill ! 
 
 IjO, fading is that vision fair ! 
 There is a light stir in the air, 
 A faint, hot sigh, and all again 
 Is still — as vainly nature then 
 Strove to dissolve the fatal spell, 
 And back to endless silence fell. 
 Another — a more stifling blast, 
 Now gust on gust is following fast ! 
 'Tis the thick breath of the simoom, 
 In cloudy volumes rolling by, 
 Filling the air with lurid gloom 
 That shrouds alike the earth and sky. 
 The camels from the smothering gale 
 Turn gasping, while the Arabs veil 
 With thickest folds the averted face, 
 And man and beast stand motionless. 
 Fierce was the sand-storm — but soon past ; 
 
THE CAEAVAN. 121 
 
 Again the slow lines onward stretch 
 In moody silence, till at last 
 The longed-for resting-place they reach ; 
 While, sun-touched still, the eye may scan 
 The far-off towers of Kairouan.* 
 
 Beneath a thin acacia's shade, 
 The captive laid his burning head, 
 And prayed for death. His weary feet 
 Were blistered by the scorching heat 
 Of flint and sand, through which, unshod. 
 With bleeding step he long had trod. 
 Speechless, the parched and stiffened tongue 
 To the mouth dry and fevered clung ; 
 The swollen, cracked lips were purple grown, 
 The eyes, that once as purely shone 
 As sapphire in a crystal sea, 
 Had lost their dewy brilliancy ; 
 
 * Kairouan, situated in a sterile sandy plain, almost entirely without 
 vegetation, was the African capital of the Moslem conquerors in the eighth 
 and ninth centuries. 
 
 6 
 
122 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 The glazed and heavy orbs, grown dim, 
 Seemed in a pool of blood to swim ; 
 A fiery current coursed each vein, 
 With quick, hot throbbings beat his brain, 
 Bewildered thought from side to side 
 riew hurriedly, but nought descried 
 Save threatening phantoms of distress, 
 Then sank to dark unconsciousness. 
 Around the sleeper all is life. 
 Command, and curse, and quarrel rife. 
 The Bey's green tents are pitched in haste, 
 Witli care mats, skins and cushions placed. 
 But for the rest, a single man 
 Alone of all the caravan 
 May claim such comforts — the Khrebir, 
 The leader whom they all revere — 
 For well they know the proverb wise, 
 That thus the Arab doth advise : 
 'If thou must needs a journey make. 
 Then to thyself companions take. 
 
THE CABAVAN. 123 
 
 Alone, a demon doth pursue ; 
 With pilgrims twain are tempters two ; 
 And when the number swells to three, 
 Let one the chosen chieftain be.' * 
 To him they give obedience meet, 
 Spread the soft carpet for a seat, 
 And shelter him from cold and heat. 
 Some from their loads the camels free. 
 And bind with cords the bended knee. 
 That none from the encampment stray, 
 And to marauders fall a prey. 
 The slaves are scattered o'er the plain 
 In eager search — nor quite in vain, — 
 For desert-shrubs that serve to light 
 The needful watchfires of the night. 
 And with whose brisk and crackling blaze, 
 ^Though short-lived, they have learned to raise 
 
 * The Prophet has said : {' Begin your journeys on Friday, and always 
 with company. Alone, a demon follows you ; if ye are two, two demons 
 do tempt you ; and when ye are three, choose to you a chief." 
 
124 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 The steaming odors, that so deep 
 
 In Mocha's priceless berry sleep. 
 
 Its fragrance now is on the air, 
 
 And straight the tiny cup they bear 
 
 To their tired lords, who glad lay by 
 
 Their pipes for this blest luxury. 
 
 The servants then their thirst assuage 
 
 With the same precious beverage. 
 
 This done, the savory meats they dress, 
 
 By Arabs of the wilderness 
 
 So prized. Meanwhile, from her employ 
 
 A negro girl young Fatmeh calls. 
 
 And bids her nurse the Christian boy. 
 
 Upon her knee Ayesha falls 
 
 Beside that form insensible, 
 
 And marks the troubled breathing well. 
 
 Then lifting from the torrid sand 
 
 The languid head, with gentle hand, 
 
 Gives to his lips the welcome draught. 
 
 Which but half consciously is quaffed. 
 
THE CAEAVAN. 125 
 
 When from the sky the red sun passed, 
 And night with sudden chill came fast, 
 O'er him the warm caftan she spread, 
 A folded mat sustained his head, 
 And blessed sleep soon chased away 
 The image of that fearful day. 
 
 Now bright the ruddy camp-fires burn ! 
 Around, the watchers, each in turn. 
 Tell their wild tales of love or war. 
 Or hidden treasures,* such as are 
 Only to Chi-istian magi known. 
 And at whose potent call alone 
 The gorgeous jewels will gush forth. 
 In shining streams, from the dark earth ; 
 Then on the sparkling flood shall roll. 
 Nor mountain bar nor sea control. 
 Till it hath reached the Christian shore, 
 
 * Traditions of immense treasure hidden in the depths of the earth, or 
 inclosed in the solid rock, and which can be discovered only by Christian 
 sages, are very current in Africa. 
 
126 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 On Frankistan its wealth to pour — 
 Whose voice upon the night doth break ? 
 " Ho, watchman ! sleep je now or wake ? '' 
 They know their faithful leader's cry, 
 And with assuring shouts reply, 
 Retrim the wasting fires, and then 
 Take up the half-told tale again. 
 But hark ! from out the circling gloom, 
 A note that shakes like trump of doom ! 
 Watchers and sleepers at the sound 
 Start to their feet with headlong bound ; 
 The ready muskets blazing ring 
 On every side ; the watch-fires fling 
 Their mounting wings of crimson light 
 Far out upon the sullen night ; 
 The camel with deep shuddering moans 
 The presence of his monarch owns. 
 While human shouts ascending high 
 Declare that nobler man is nigh. 
 And warn the royal beast to fly. 
 
THE CAKAVAN. 127 
 
 IIo hears — he that for peer alone 
 The son of woman deigns to own — * 
 Nor for such foe will longer stay, 
 But back to darkness stalks away. 
 
 * When the lion roars, the Arabs pretend to distinguish the words 
 " ahua ou ben el mera. I and the son of the woman." Ahna (I) he utters 
 but once, but he repeats " the son of the woman," whence it is inferred 
 that he recognizes man as his superior. 
 
CANTO VII 
 
 THE LETTER. 
 
 Let us fly from the burning desert forth, 
 For an hour to the cool and showery North ! 
 From the jackal's cry, from the lion's roar, 
 To the billows that break on a troubled shore — 
 Hear the scream of the sea-mew wild, instead 
 Of the vulture's flap o'er the carcass dead — 
 Leave the sandy couch, where the captive sleeps, 
 For the knoll where his watch the father keeps ! 
 
 There still the patient father stands 
 Where first we marked him, on the down, 
 And of each passing sail demands 
 If it bear tidings of his son. 
 
THE LETTEE. 
 
 Again the fair midsummer-tide 
 Shines, as when Melleff left his side, 
 So bold, so full of hope to earn 
 Such mead for toils he longed to bear. 
 That he full shortly might return 
 To free his father's age from care ! 
 Where is he now 1 how deep this thought 
 In every feature is inwrought*! 
 But on that withered cheek a beam 
 Of fresher hue methinks doth glow. 
 Oh, is it not the trembling gleam 
 Eeflected from hope's radiant bow ? 
 Aye, and his eye is dim and bright 
 By turns from that same changeful light. 
 Hath some late news of his lost boy 
 Shed on his heart this doubtful joy ? 
 
 But see ! he leaves the twilight shore, 
 
 Across the winding creek is gone 
 
 Toward a kind neighbor's friendly door, 
 6* 
 
 129 
 
130 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 That never bar or bolt hath known. 
 A moment let us enter there, 
 Before the guest's slow foot draws nigh. 
 It is the hour of evening prayer, 
 And its deep tones fill solemnly 
 The hushed space of the dusky room. 
 Half-curtained by the twilight gloom ; 
 But still around each kneeler's head 
 A shimmer of the evening red 
 Doth linger. By its fading light 
 Their number we may tell aright. 
 The father first, whose silver hair 
 Gleams like a saintly glory there, 
 And near him, touched by the same ray, 
 A child's unquiet tresses play. 
 Next, side by side, two sisters meek 
 A blessing on the absent seek. 
 Each in a mourning vesture clad — 
 Well may they wear those garments sad ! 
 A husband's coming one doth wait; 
 
THE LETTER. 131 
 
 The other for a lover sighs 
 Whose parting sail to-day was set, 
 Just lost to her pursuing eyes. 
 Are there no more ? A low amen 
 Comes from a shadowy corner, when 
 The father's simple prayer is done — 
 It is the mother's feeble tone ! 
 Within that arm-chair — curious wrought 
 By hands that have their craft forgot 
 For centuries — sits the aged dame, 
 And thus hath sat for years the same. 
 Ere icy-fingered Time could dare 
 To frost one thread of her dark hair. 
 Or draw one line across the brow 
 So deeply scored with furrows now. 
 The arrows of disease pierced sore 
 That shrinking frame, and evermore 
 His patient thrall she bideth still. 
 Waiting with cheerful courage, till 
 
132 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 He who set Abraham's daughter free, 
 Loose her from her infirmity. 
 
 Soon as the worshippers arise, 
 The glad child to the window flies, 
 And, leaning through the open sash. 
 Watches the billows' foamy dash. 
 But, most of all, the evening sky, 
 That seldom glows so ruddily 
 Around the chill and misty isle. 
 Though warmed by summer's softest smile. 
 A growing wonder shades the joy 
 Spread o'er the features of the boy. 
 " O, grandpapa ! now tell me, pray. 
 Who takes the golden sun away. 
 And keeps it from us all the night "? 
 And what makes yonder sky so bright ? " 
 As moved by some lost memory, 
 The old man smiled, then on his knee 
 
THE LETTER. 133 
 
 The little questioner he set, 
 And to his daughter playful turned, 
 Whose cheeks with recent tears were wet,— 
 ." Come, Ola ! hear a tale I learned 
 Long since ; 'tis one will suit thee well, 
 Sit thou beside me while I tell ! " 
 
 MIDSUMMER TWILIGHT. 
 
 Thou seest in the West, where the waves wash the sky, 
 The torch of the day-star at eve slow expiring ; 
 Again dost behold, with thine opening eye, 
 His flambeau rekindled, the Orient firing. 
 
 Hath any e'er shown thee, who quencheth its light 1 
 E'er told thee of Quelling, the maiden immortal ? 
 Of Delling, the youth, with his locks amber-bright, 
 Who bears it, relighted, through Morn's flashing portal ? 
 
134: WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Then hear how the bards of the North tell the tale ; 
 When Allfather's work of creation was ended, 
 That daylight and darkness in turn should not fliil, 
 He called two fair spirits that round him attended. 
 
 To rosy young Quelling, his loveliest child, 
 A virgin whose birthright was beauty eternal, 
 He spoke thus, in accents paternally mild : 
 " My daughter, behold, this thy duty diurnal — 
 
 " To extinguish the torch of the westering Sun, 
 
 When earthward he leaneth, with face flushed and weary ; 
 
 And keep it with care till the dew-beaded dawn 
 
 Shall scatter dun Night, with her train pale and dreary." 
 
 To Delling, the first of the heavenly choir : 
 
 " Thine be it, when Sol starteth up from his sleeping, 
 
 To bid the torch flame with ethereal fire, 
 
 And give it again to his watchfullest keeping." 
 
THE LETTEK., 135 
 
 The fair sky-born children since, ever in turn, 
 Have failed not to do as Allnither hath bidden ; 
 At dawn, heaven and earth in the new glory burn — 
 At evening, the red blaze is carefully hidden. 
 
 When Nature, grown drowsy and chill, seeketh rest, 
 The torch for long hours in deep darkness reposes ; 
 For early its beam goeth out in the West, 
 And late in the East, Morn's cold eyelid uncloses. 
 
 When Spring's breath requickens each life-gifted thing, 
 And Summer hath need of the days long and sunny, 
 Her flowers and her fruits to perfection to bring, 
 Ripe cherries for robins, for bees the sweet honey — 
 
 Then early and late stands the Sun in the skies, 
 Still pouring his M'arm rays on meadow and river ; — 
 To paint rose and lily with loveliest dyes. 
 And gild the bright cornfield, he wearieth never. 
 
136 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Brief then are the moments of silence and shade 
 
 Still flickers the torch just inverted by Quelling, 
 When clear the birds' matin-song swells from the glade, 
 The fire glows again, held aloft by blithe Delling. 
 
 It chanced at this sweetest of seasons, more praised. 
 More sung by the poets than ever another. 
 The watchers, star-crowned, once too earnestly gazed, 
 Too long, in the clear, deej), brown eyes of each other. 
 
 When Delling reached forth for the languishing flame, 
 lie pressed the white hand that the maiden extended, 
 Then forward he stooped, and his ruddy lips came 
 Nigh hers and more nigh, till in kisses they blended. 
 
 On Quelling's soft cheek burneth crimson a blush. 
 Till, skyward reflected, it reaches the zenith ; 
 There mirrored, the fire of the youth meets the flush, 
 As over her beauty still fondly he leaneth. 
 
THE LETTER. 137 
 
 But Odin, whose eye doth not slumber for aye, 
 In midnight's short silence looked down on their meeting; 
 He called them before him, when shone the full day, 
 And spake to them thus, with right fatherly greeting : 
 
 " My children, with zeal my behest ye fulfil, 
 
 And service so faithful its recompense claimeth. 
 
 Nor fear that with me it doth argue aught ill, 
 
 That Love's sacred spark your young bosom inflameth. 
 
 " Henceforth will I grant you, a true wedded pair, 
 Forever to dwell in a union unending. 
 Together all duty, all pleasure to share, 
 Still closer and closer your souls ever blending." 
 
 The lovers were silent — then lowly they knelt — 
 " Allfather forgive — hear the prayer that we offer ! 
 Such bliss in the kiss of betrothal we felt. 
 We would not exchange it for all thou dost proffer. 
 
138 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 " Oh, grant us forever affianced to live, 
 And yearly, when Earth in her summer robe dresses, 
 For largess more ample, this simple boon give, 
 Our hands let us join, let our lips meet in kisses ! " 
 
 Then Allfather smiled on the suppliant pair, 
 And blessed the sweet bond of their hearts' happy choosing — 
 Could any who heard them breathe forth that meek prayer, 
 A joy such as theirs think it blame to fear losing 1 
 
 Ever since, when their season of tryst cometh round. 
 Kind Nature pours forth her best treasures to grace it, 
 Her brightest of beauty, her sweetest of sound. 
 And ne'er suffers frost or chill mist to deface it. 
 
 Know, then, when thou seest still at midsummer's tide 
 A flush in the West, when the red dawn is breaking, 
 'Tis the glow of the youth, 'tis the blush of his bride. 
 New troth-vows the lovers immortal are making ! * 
 
 * The Legend of the Midsummer Twilight is given in Kohl II., 278. 
 It is of Esthonian origin, and the names of the youth and maiden are Koit 
 
TIIE LETTEE. 139 
 
 Wearily up the cottage mound 
 
 Old Wolfe, with feeble footsteps, wound, 
 
 And now Avithin the door doth stand, 
 
 And now receives the welcoming hand. 
 
 " Neighbor, my errand thou canst guess ! 
 
 Have patience with my childishness. 
 
 And, prithee, let me hear once more 
 
 What thou hast read me o'er and o'er 
 
 Of my poor boy. I cannot choose 
 
 But marvel that he sends no news 
 
 From his own hand. The boy could write 
 
 Fair as the pastor ; and when night 
 
 Her curtains dark doth downward roll, 
 
 Strange doubts arise within my soul, 
 
 and Aemmarik. These names are, like Equotuticum— quod versu dicere 
 non est— not well suited to English verse, and therefore the author has 
 substituted for them Delling (Icelandic Dellingr, formed from dagr, day, 
 the appellation of the Scandinavian god of day, and Quelling, a corre- 
 sponding derivative from qveld (kveld, qvoUd), evening. Those un- 
 acquainted with the Northern languages may suppose it a violation of cos- 
 tume to employ Sol as the name of the sun in a story with a Scandi- 
 navian machinery ; but the sun is called Sol in Icelandic as well as in 
 Latin. 
 
140 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Misgivings, fears that will not end — " 
 " Thy letter, daughter ! " said the friend. 
 The youthful matron pushed aside her wheel, 
 And brought, with wifely pride, 
 The sheet that, in its careful folds. 
 Treasures of love and promise holds. 
 Thus writes the husband : " If God please, 
 We soon shall leave the Midland seas 
 For home. Young Melleff, sought in vain 
 So long, is found, is free again, 
 And in our ship for Hamburg sails. 
 Heaven speed her on with favoring gales ! " 
 
CANTO VIII. 
 
 THE CHASE. 
 
 'Neath Nefta's palms they slowly walked— 
 
 The foster-mother and her child — 
 
 And earnestly together talked, 
 
 While ruddy morning round them smiled. 
 
 " The Christian Melleff," said the maid, 
 
 " We miss from haunts where late he stray 
 
 The roses on the outer wall, 
 
 That were his charge to train and dress, 
 
 Upon the earth neglected fall — 
 
 The garden grows a wilderness. 
 
 Hath sickness smitten ? — or thy hands^ 
 
 O Gerda ! have they loosed his bands ? " 
 
142 WOLFE OF TH1D KNOLL. 
 
 " Nay ! nay ! these hands in youth were found 
 
 Too weak to burst the cords that bound. 
 
 Now, trembling fast with age and pain, 
 
 How should they break another's chain ? 
 
 I too have questioned, and they say 
 
 He stands of late before the Bey. 
 
 For Fatmeh ! know, I more than share 
 
 For Melleff all thy watchful care. 
 
 Child of my poor lost child, to me 
 
 Dearer than all on earth save thee ! — 
 
 Thou hast no words for w^onder ! stay— 
 
 My tale thou'lt hear another day. 
 
 Enough, enough, that now I show 
 
 One chapter of my early woe. 
 
 They tore me from my babe, my joy — 
 
 Her, since the mother of this boy — 
 
 From him I learned that mother's name, 
 
 Her orphan state, and whence she came. 
 
 Then through my soul there shot a light. 
 
 As if the noon should flash on night. 
 
THE CHASE. 143 
 
 I thought — age too hath dreams so wild — 
 
 I might again behold my child, 
 
 With MellefF go — his freedom won — 
 
 And to her arms restore her son ! 
 
 Breathless I sought the cro^Yded quay 
 
 Where many a merchant flag waved free, 
 
 One from the North — the master * well 
 
 Knew Wolfe and would not fliil to tell 
 
 Of his boy's bondage ; ' " Ah," he cried, 
 
 " Now is it well the mother died 
 
 Ere this could reach her ! " — " Is she dead ? " 
 
 Gaspingly, vshudderingly I said. 
 
 Pie answered, and I turned, once more 
 
 All crushed and hopeless, from the shore. — 
 
 Peace has returned. Now am I blest 
 
 To know my INIary is at rest. 
 
 I follow soon — but I would see, 
 
 Ere I depart, her MellefF free ! 
 
 No ransom comes — and thou, once more, 
 
 O Eatmeh, shalt the Bey implore. 
 
144 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Where childhood's timid prayers could fail, 
 Thy woman's tears may still prevail"— 
 Young Fatmeh's face grew deadly pale. 
 
 " Up ye now ! saddle the steeds that are fleetest ! 
 Steeds for the chase of the camel-bird meetest ! 
 See that my tents fleck the desert's red border 
 Ere the gray nightfall ! " — so ran the Bey's order. 
 
 Ere the gray nightfall, his green tents were planted 
 Far to the south, where the setting sun slanted 
 Arrows of fire o'er a golden- waved ocean 
 Solid as jasper, no sound and no motion. 
 
 Far to the south, where the clouds yester-even 
 Marshalled their ranks by the light of the levin ; 
 Thither the rain-loving ostrich hath sped her, 
 Swift as the flash of the bright bolt that led her.* 
 
 * The ostrich is generally found where showers of rain have lately fallen. 
 According to the Arabs, when the ostrich sees the lightning and a gather- 
 ing storm, she runs in the direction where it appears, however distant it 
 may be. A ten days' journey (of a caravan) is but a trifle for her. They 
 say of a man who is skilful in providing for his flocks in the desert, " He 
 is like the ostrich ; where he sees the lightning flash, there he is." 
 
THE CHASE. 145 
 
 Fleet is the game they will hunt on the morrow ; 
 Rider and horse, let them hasten to borrow 
 Strength from repose, ere the white robe of morning, 
 Seen from afar, of the chase giveth warning. 
 
 Wake ! for her silvery mantle is gleaming, 
 O'er it her tresses of amber are streaming, 
 Upward on iris-hued pinions she springeth, 
 Pearls o'er oasis and palm-grove she flingeth ! 
 
 Cast off the haik ! Be your girdle the tightest, 
 Saddle and bridle and stirrup the lightest, 
 Look to the weight of the weapon ye carry. 
 Lose not a moment ! Lo, yonder the quarry ! 
 
 Swift as a shaft from the bow of Apollo, 
 
 Forth darts the ostrich, the snorting steeds follow ; 
 
 Sail-like, her white, curling pinions she spreadeth — 
 
 Is it the earth, or the air that she treadeth ? 
 
 7 
 
146 WOLFE OF TIIE KNOLL. 
 
 '' Fast on her foremost pursuer she gaineth, 
 Vainly each nerve and each muscle he straineth, 
 Vamly, with nostrils dilated, he drinketh 
 Draughts of the wind * — ^lo, he reeleth, he sinketh ! 
 
 Mark how the wile of the sportsman appeareth ! f 
 Yonder white rock, that the panting bird neareth, 
 Shelters a courser as fresh as the morning — 
 Rider and roan, for the race they are burning. 
 
 On like a whirlwind the wild hunter rushes. 
 Now, now, the plumes of the victim he brushes ! 
 Too soon with triumph his dark eye is bright'ning ! 
 Far, far before him she sweeps like the lightning ! 
 
 * Sherb-el-Rih, wiucl-drinker, is an epithet applied to the swiftest 
 horses. 
 
 t The ostrich has very lijttle cunning, never doiilles in her flight, but 
 depends on her speed alone, and runs in a straight course. Several horse- 
 men post themselves at distances of about a league from each other on the 
 line of flight ; and when one stops, the next takes up the pursuit, and thus 
 the bird is constantly chased by fresh horses. Of course the last horse- 
 man secures the prize. 
 
THE CHASE. 147 
 
 Barb of the desert, thy breeding is noble, 
 Yet hope thou not, though thy mettle were double, 
 E'er to o'ertake the wing'd giant that races 
 Fast as the rack which the hurricane chases ! 
 
 Once more from ambush a horseman outleapeth ; 
 Thine, gallant gray, is the foot that outstrippeth 
 Samiel, the sun-born ; now prove what thou darest ; 
 On for the prize ! 'tis thy master thou bearest ! 
 
 Eapid, direct, as the ball when it flashes 
 Out through the smoke-wreath, the fiery Bey dashes 
 Forth on the game, that yet slacks not nor falters. 
 Right-ward or left-ward her course never alters. 
 
 Sky, air and earth in the noontide are seething, 
 Stifling and hot is the dust-cloud they're breathing,- 
 Little reck they of the shrivelling heaven. 
 Heed not the fire-shower that o'er them is driven ! 
 
148 WOLFE OF THE ICN^OLL. 
 
 Hour after hour the pursued and pursuing 
 Scour o'er the sand-waste, their speed still renewing ; 
 Foam-mantled steed, how thy sobljing gasps thicken ! 
 Bird of the Sahara, thy lagging steps quicken, 
 
 So art thou safe! 'Tis too late ! lo, already 
 Trail her fringed wings, and her foot is unsteady ! 
 Blindly she staggers, she seeketh to hide her ! 
 Courage, bold gray, and thou soon art beside her ! 
 
 Headlong she rolleth, still fluttering and shivering, 
 O'er her the courser stands panting and quivering, 
 Aali hath lifted his weapon, she boundeth 
 High in the death-throe, her flapping wing soundeth 
 
 Hoarse as the tempest ; the frightened steed starteth,* 
 Swerves, plunges, rears, till the saddle-girth parteth ; 
 Off" springs his lord, down the. barb droppeth dying, 
 Courser and camel-bird side by side lying ! 
 
 * The victory is not Avithout danger. The fluttering of the bird's wings, 
 as she falls, inspires the horse with a sudden terror, which often proves 
 fatal to the rider. 
 
THE CHASE. 149 
 
 The chase is o'er, the fiery day 
 To night's cool splendors fast gives way. 
 Aali commands his weary train 
 To- seek Sheikh Moosa's tents again ; 
 There yesternoon the generous chief 
 To every want gave prompt relief, 
 And there the pacha will abide 
 Till the red flush of morning-tide. 
 
 Didst e'er tnose valleys green behold, 
 
 Of Desert Araby the pride. 
 
 By glowing hills encircled wide, 
 
 Like emeralds set in chiselled gold 1 
 
 Didst ever there at evening lie 
 
 And watch, beneath a royal palm, 
 
 How the great moon came up the sky 
 
 In all her majesty of calm. 
 
 Yet shedding beams as bright as those 
 
 Shot from Prince Arthur's flaming shield, 
 
150 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 When he unveiled it to his foes 
 And left them sightless on the field ? 
 There hast thou heard, the livelong night, 
 The shrill cicala's quavering lay, — 
 She could not know such glorious light 
 Was not indeed the golden day ! — 
 And hast thou marked the slender thread 
 Of crystal shining at thy feet, 
 Winding along its agate bed 
 With flow so soft, so silvery sweet, 
 While the lush oleander gazed, 
 By her own wondrous beauty dazed, 
 Into the watery mirror clear, 
 Where all her lovely blooms appear 1 
 In such a vale Sheikh Moosa rests, 
 On such a night receives his guests. 
 
 Stately the welcome that he gave. 
 Such as became a patriarch grave. 
 " Be Allah's peace upon thy head ! " 
 
THE CHASE. 151 
 
 " Nor less on thine that peace be shed ! " 
 
 " O Bey ! lo, all that late was mine, 
 My flocks, my herds, my tents are thine ! 
 The meanest slave that follows thee 
 Shall hunger not, nor thirst with me." 
 
 *' O master of the tent ! " replied 
 The Bey, " thy courtesy was tried 
 But late ; our presence here to-night 
 Proves that we value it aright." 
 
 Then Aali to his tent repairs, 
 While for his guest Sheikh Moosa cares. 
 He bids his servants haste to bring 
 Fair water from the living spring, 
 So grateful to the traveller's feet 
 After such day of toil and heat. 
 Then smoking viands follow fast 
 And long, till milk and dates at last 
 Conclude the generous repast. 
 
152 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Tunisia's lord doth here abate 
 Somewhat of his accustomed state, 
 For he has learned that fiery blood 
 Of Bedouin brooks not haughty mood, 
 And willingly he would not know 
 A powerful desert chief his foe. 
 Now he demands with kindly air, 
 " How doth thy little warrior fare — 
 The boy that yesterday did ride 
 So proud and fearless by thy side, 
 And with his mimic martial play 
 Made every heart around him gay ? " 
 
 The sheikh replied, " At this late hour 
 He slumbers in his mother's bower ; 
 But if my lord till dawn remain, 
 He shall behold the child again." 
 
 With the long day's rude pleasures spent, 
 On carpet soft the Bey now sleeps, 
 
THE CHASE. 153 
 
 And ever round his princely tent 
 A faithful watch Sheikh Moosa keeps. 
 The azure field above it spi^ad 
 Hangs not more silent overhead, 
 Than lies the little vale below 
 Till the dawn lifts her jewelled brow, 
 And bids the morning-star that waits 
 Throw wide the Orient's shining gates. 
 Then from his couch doth Aali start, 
 And give the signal to depart. 
 
 His morning orisons were o'er, 
 His chafing steed at the tent-door ; 
 Leave of his host he turned to take. 
 And courteous were the words he s^^ake ; 
 Fair wishes many, thanks were none — 
 The Moslem thanks his God alone. 
 
 The sheikh made answer, " Hear, O Bey ! 
 
 And for a moment yet delay. 
 7* 
 
154: WOLFE OF THE K:N0LL. 
 
 Thou art my guest since yestereven, 
 
 And I, with Allah's aid, have striven 
 
 Our Prophets precept to fulfil, 
 
 And keep thee from all pain and ill. 
 
 Such duty may not be discussed, 
 
 The guest is Allah's sacred trust. 
 
 If then the service of this night 
 
 Hath found acceptance in thy sight, 
 
 I pray thee with thy presence deign 
 
 To grace a mournful funeral train." 
 
 He paused, his pale lips trembled fast. 
 
 And through his frame a shudder passed. 
 
 Then calm resuming, " Know," he said, 
 
 " The child that won thy praise is dead ! 
 
 The noonday sun shot through his brain 
 
 A deadly dart of mortal pain ; 
 
 An hour before thy horses' tread 
 
 Sounded afar, his spirit fled. 
 
 So Allah willed it ! Be it so ! 
 
 Who but the all-knowinsc God should know 
 
THE CHASE. 155 
 
 Whether we need or joy or woe ! 
 But when thy train came up the vale, 
 I bade the women cease their wail — 
 Even the poor mother, wild with woe, 
 I charged her outcries to forego ; 
 And to secure obedience, swore 
 That if one sob of hers my guest 
 Should reach, to trouble feast or rest, 
 Henceforth she was my wife no more ! 
 Thou knowest, O Bey, if sound or sight 
 Of grief hath touched thy heart this night ! 
 Then join thy faithful prayers with mine, 
 That on the dead God's face may shine ! " 
 
 The Bey stood speechless as in trance, 
 Wonder and pity in his glance, 
 Then, " 'Tis the will of God ! " he said, 
 And followed where Sheikh Moosa led. 
 
 Within the tent of grief they stand ; 
 On a rich mat the fair child lies ; 
 
156 WOLFE OF THE KKOLL. 
 
 Circling him round in double band 
 The wailers rend the air with cries. 
 " Alas, for him ! " the mother moans, 
 " Alas, for him ! " a weeper groans, 
 " Alas, for him ! " in chorus wild 
 They shriek, " Alas, alas the child ! " 
 Calmly the sleeper sleeps the while, 
 And smiles great Azrael's heavenly smile. 
 They shower upon his marble breast 
 The costliest spices of the East ; 
 Around the little form they wind 
 The richest broideries of Ind ; 
 Then raise the mat with tender care, 
 And forth the mournful burden bear. 
 
 Louder and shriller swells the wail ; 
 Wildly, in sign of heaviest bale, 
 The women toss their kerchiefs blue, 
 Then beat their breasts, their shrieks renew. 
 
THE CHASE. . 157 
 
 But hark ! the Moolah strikes the chant ! 
 The mourners cease their piercing plaint. 
 " Allah is great ! His will be done ! "— 
 So did the solemn chorus run — 
 " Allah is gracious, He doth give ! 
 Is wise, He taketh when he will ! 
 Good at His hand shall we receive, 
 And murmur when He sendeth ill ? 
 Let for the child our sorrows cease ! 
 May Allah keep his soul in peace ! " 
 
 While thus of mingled prayer and praise 
 The measured hymn to Heaven they raise, 
 With regular but rapid tread 
 To his last rest they bear the dead. 
 Too long the parted soul doth wait 
 At the dark grave for her lost mate ! 
 There the crushed bud with tearful rite 
 They hide forever from their sight. 
 
158 . WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Slowly and reverently the men 
 
 Turn backward to their tents again. 
 
 The women linger still to mourn ; 
 
 " Moon of our darkness, Oh, return ! 
 
 O fountain of our desert, why, 
 
 Why is thy spring thus early dry 1 
 
 O fair young palm, why didst thou flide, 
 
 When we were sporting 'neath thy shade "? 
 
 Why fall and crush us, cruel tree ? 
 
 Did we not love thee tenderly. 
 
 Lead the sweet water to thy root. 
 
 That thou above all palms mightst shoot ? 
 
 Thy mother why didst thou forsake, 
 
 And leave her wretched heart to break ? " 
 
 Awhile the Moolah stands aloof, 
 Then mildly speaks a grave reproof; 
 " Ye women, trouble not the dead ! 
 He hath not stood in Allah's stead 
 To fix the measure of his years ! 
 
THE CHASE. I59 
 
 ^h) <iiT your unavailing tears ! 
 
 Let faith and prayer assuage your woes, 
 
 And leave the grave to its repose ! " 
 
 Admonished thus, their grief they stayed, 
 And silent there a moment prayed. 
 Then with sad looks still backward cast. 
 Forth from the place of tombs they passed. 
 
 Meanwhile toward Nefta rode the Bey, 
 And on his heart strange burden lay. 
 Was it the morning's sight of woe 
 That left his sluggish pulse so low ? 
 Aali was wont to look on death, 
 And lightly valued life's poor breath. 
 'Twas no weak terror of the tomb 
 That wrapped his spirit in this gloom. 
 It was the agony of life. 
 The change, the chance, the mortal strife. 
 That o'er the vision of his soul 
 
160 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Swept like the storm-cloud's onward roll, 
 Casting its heavy shadows broad, 
 Even o'er the path already trod 
 In smiling sunshine, till at last . 
 In night lie future, present, past. 
 ■ Haunts not as oft such darkening spell 
 The banquet as the burial ? 
 
 The pacha strove to change his mood, 
 To see through all the evil good ; 
 Yet ever at his heart there lay 
 A weight he could not roll away. 
 Forward he spurs — What fearful need 
 Doth urge yon horseman's headlong speed, ' 
 That toward him rides ? Behold, they meet ! 
 The messenger lies at his feet — 
 Hath rent his robe with gesture wild, 
 And on his head the dust hath piled. 
 " What are thy tidings ? varlet, say ! " 
 Exclaimed the darkly-frowning Bey. 
 
THE CHASE. 16] 
 
 " Alas, alas ! O master mine . 
 And must I give to ears of thine 
 The tale I bring ! This night accursed, 
 A storm -of desert-robbers burst 
 Upon our guards, who bled in vain. 
 Thy gates are forced, thy servants slain. 
 Thy daughter — o'er the reeking dead 
 They leaped, and with their captive fled ! " 
 
CANTO IX 
 
 THE AEEIVAL. 
 
 The sea of song and story, tlie sea that knows no tide ! 
 How softly o'er its waters yon argosy doth ride ! 
 Her path hj fair Trinacria, that queen of ishmds, lies, 
 "Where ^Etna's smoke-wreathed forehead is lifted to the skies. 
 A breath, the mildest, steadiest of summer's welcome gales, 
 Hath smoothed the rugged billows, and gently fons her sails. 
 No foam her bows are shedding; as noiseless doth she pass 
 As ship in realm of Faery, that glides o'er waves of glass. 
 Yet one her deck is pacing that marks with many a sigh 
 The amethj'st of ocean, the azure of the sky. 
 His spirit, fliint with longing, would hold it better flir 
 To meet the black-winged storm-cloud, to mount its thunder- 
 ing car, 
 
THE AEKIVAL. 163 
 
 And homeward through the midnight with whirlwind-speed 
 
 to ride, 
 'Twixt walls of leaping foam-flakes, red lightning for his 
 
 guide ! 
 Nor marvel at such choosing ! his soul hath pined in chains. 
 Borne slavery's sharp anguish, its more than deathly pains 
 Tor years, till gold gave freedom — now swells his breast 
 
 with joy. 
 To think how glad they'll greet him, their long lost island- 
 boy, 
 With blessing, with caressing — Oh, here how shall he wait 
 For sluggish winds that loiter, and keels with fettering 
 
 freight ! 
 Long, long with foot impatient from stem to stern he strode, 
 Then, weary, o'er the bulwarks he leaned in peevish mood. 
 And bent his eyes, half conscious, upon the placid flood. 
 
 When rudely tossed by passion, thy heart has striven in vain 
 Through reason's sovereign mandate its quiet to regain, 
 When cares of life were rolling their wild and vapory rack 
 
164 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Around thee and above thee, and darkening all thy track — 
 Yet thou hast shrunk from praying, because thou wert 
 
 ashamed 
 To call upon the Master, who surely must have blamed 
 Thy own weak faith full sharply ere lie the tempest tamed. 
 Oh then, hast ever turned thee from warring thoughts within, 
 The fear, the hope, the longing, the struggle and the sin — 
 Trom these hast ever turned thee to look on Nature's face, 
 That still reflects so clearly her Author's constant grace ? 
 She calms thee with her silence, she soothes thee with her 
 
 sound. 
 And like a loving mother's her arms enfold thee round. 
 Then softly doth she whisper, " Go, erring child, go pray ! 
 If haply so our Father forgive thy sin this day ! " 
 Great Angel of creation ! God placed thee at our side, 
 An ever present guardian to cheer us and to chide. 
 Thy glorious forehead blazing with stars of differing grace, 
 Thy wings of light outstretching through boundless fields 
 
 of space. 
 Thy rainbow garme'nts trailing along thy shining patli. 
 
THE ARKIYAL. 165 
 
 Thy voice, now loving music, now terrible in wrath, 
 Thy mighty power to quicken the dullest human heart, 
 Declare from the beginning whose minister thou art ! 
 Oh, still thy heavenly message of trust and patience speak 
 To all whose hearts are troubled, whose clouded faith is weak ! 
 
 Now mark the restless stranger ! as down the crystal wave 
 He looks, his pulse grows calmer, his anxious brow less 
 
 grave. 
 What sees he there ? A landscape, more bright, more 
 
 strangely fair 
 Tlian ever yet hath gladdened the realms of upper air. 
 Over a briny ocean no longer doth he seem 
 Borne by a lifeless framework of canvas, bolt and beam, 
 But raised on spirit pinions through ether seas to go, 
 With the old heavens above him, and a new world below. 
 His brain swims as he gazes down many a fathom deep, 
 Where plain and hill and valley alternate past him sweep ; 
 Broad shining plains all sparkling with rippled sands of gold, 
 O'erstrewn with gem-like pebbles and radiant shells untold ; 
 
166 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Hills clothed with graceful forests or rough with jagged rocks, 
 Slopes purple as Hymettus, the wild thyme in his locks, 
 Or ledges steeply shelving, whence silken tangles fall 
 In broad and flowing fringes, as wrought for regal pall ; 
 Valleys, where clustering thickets of crimson coral grow, 
 Where flowers the fair astrea white as the maybloom's 
 
 snow. 
 "With pearly tassels drooping, the actinia here is seen, 
 And there the crimpled sea-fan named of the foam-born 
 
 queen ; 
 Anemones and daisies and lilies scarcely blown, 
 Arrayed in robes of splendor are o'er those gardens strewn. 
 Not Jove's bloom-loving daughter e'er gathered buds so 
 
 bright 
 Where Mongibello weareth his crown of flame by night. 
 Broad palm-like plumes are waving o'er beds of branching 
 
 moss, 
 And polished sea-vines flaunting in mazy turnings cross. 
 Then twine in garlands braided with living buds and flowers, 
 Whose amaranthine beauty shames Flora's choicest bowers ; 
 
THE AEEIYAL. 167 
 
 Crowns wrought of purest crystal, or w^oven of burning stains 
 As deep as ever kindled in old cathedral panes. 
 Well might the Tyrian's cunning draw forth, of ocean-birth, 
 A beam whose flaming lustre should pale the tints of earth ! 
 Nor life nor motion lacketh that vision wondrous rare ; 
 Moss, vine and wreath are swinging, as rocked by vernal air. 
 Forth from the coral copses the glossy fishes dart 
 In armor sheen enamelled beyond all power of art ; 
 Now through the subtle fluid a single silvery flash 
 Shoots silent as a moonbeam, and now with muffled plash 
 In dazzling shoals they're flying, like flocks of timid doves, 
 That scared by stranger footsteps in clouds forsake the 
 
 groves. 
 Medusas float in myriads, as light as mists of morn, 
 Which melting in the sunrise are up the valley borne ; 
 Now stainless as the dew-drops that gem the grassy spires, 
 Now dyed with hues that rival the opal's changeful fires. 
 Aye, bring your brightest jewels, your stones of clearest ray 
 Before these ocean-glories their light will fade away !* 
 
 * See Quatrefage's Souvenirs d'nn Ts'aturaliste. 
 
168 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Lost in o'erwhelming wonder the humbled youth exclaims ; 
 " O Father, by the tenderest of all Thy chosen names, 
 By Thy great love incarnate, forgive my soul that ^till 
 Against Thine awful counsels hath raised a sinful will ! " 
 
 What feverish throb of life our isle 
 
 Now stirs, that lay so calm erewhile ? 
 
 Why do they hurry to the shore, 
 
 And send their searching glances o'er 
 
 The roughening sea? What! know'st thou not, 
 
 From Hamburg city news is brought, 
 
 That Melleff, son of Amroom, late 
 
 A slave in Barbary, doth wait 
 
 In her safe port for wind and tide 
 
 To waft him to our island's side ? 
 
 To-day the breeze blows fresh and fair. 
 
 To-day the favoring tide rolls high. 
 
 To-day no sea-mists blind the air, 
 
 The bark that bears him must be nigh ! 
 
 The downs in panting haste they climb, 
 
THE AEEITAL. 169 
 
 The young, the old, the weak, the strong. 
 Even the poor widow of my rhyme 
 I miss not from the happy throng. 
 She gave her all to save the boy — 
 Should she not share the father's joy ? 
 
 Ah me ! the father ! who may know 
 
 His heart, or knowing, think to show ! 
 
 Silent he stands, as in a dream, 
 
 Apart upon his chosen knoll. 
 
 Within his eye no kindling beam. 
 
 But patience strong within his soul. 
 
 On his pale features none can trace 
 
 The cheer that gladdens every face 
 
 Save his. Yet is it strange that years 
 
 Of blasted hopes and freezing fears 
 
 Should rob him of the power to feel 
 
 Assurance strong of coming weal 1 
 
 That one so long, so deeply sad 
 
 Forgets to smile, though he be glad ? 
 8 
 
170 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 'A sail ? a sail V the questioning word 
 In dc abtfiil murmurs first is heard. 
 'A sail ! a sail !' the shout breaks loud 
 And full from the rejoicing crowd. 
 Aye, there it shines ! a point of light, 
 And now a little silvery thing, 
 As tiny as the sea-me^Y's wing 
 When seen afir in distant flight ; 
 Now with a fuller pinion spread, 
 Higher it lifts its sun-lit head ; 
 Onward the swelling cloud comes fast, 
 Filled with the freshening western ])last. 
 Now mast and model fairly show^, 
 Now the flimiliar flag they know. 
 Wolfe trembles. At his failing side 
 The pastor stands, and strives to hide 
 His own strong passion ; words of cheer 
 He speaks ; the old man doth not hear. 
 But ever nigher and more nigh 
 The bounding bark comes dancing on ; 
 
THE AEEIYAL. 171 
 
 Straight toward our isle her course doth lie. 
 
 Let every chilling doubt be gone ! 
 
 The winding channel now she threads, 
 
 As one that well-known pathway treads, 
 
 And now at anchor doth she ride ; 
 
 They lower a boat — with waving hand 
 
 A youth leaps down the vessel's side, 
 
 The oars pull swiftly toward the strand — 
 
 Distrustful father, fear no more ! 
 
 Behold thy faith's long trial o'er ! 
 
 Down every cheek the tears run warm, 
 
 And prayers gush forth from every soul. 
 As Wolfe, stayed by the pastor's arm, 
 With staggering step descends the knoll. 
 But ere his tottering feet can reach 
 The shore, the boat hath touched the beach. 
 The eager youth with one strong bound 
 Leaps to the land — looks anxious round. 
 Will no one greet him ? wherefore stand 
 In such amaze that island band ? 
 
172 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 The old man's eye grows fixed and wild — 
 Oh God ! 'tis not — 'tis not his child ! 
 Fainting he sinks with murmur low, 
 " My heart foretold the coming blow ; 
 Grant patience, Thou who seest my woe ! " 
 Around the stricken sire they group. 
 O'er him with pitying look they stoop, 
 They lift his head upon their knees, 
 They bare his bosom to the breeze, 
 Chafe the stiff hand, and still anew 
 Wipe from his brow the chilling dew 
 Cold as the gathering damps of death. 
 Then listen for the silent breath. 
 
 Ah, hapless stranger ! still alone 
 
 Dost stand, unwelcomed and unknown ? 
 
 Is this the hour to which for years 
 
 Thy soul hath looked through toil and tears ? 
 
 Is this the hope that made thee strong 
 
 To bear the shame, the burning wrong ? 
 
THE ARRIVAL. 1Y3 
 
 For this didst pray the lagging breeze 
 To speed thy bark across the seas 1 
 Yet stay — thou art not all forgot ! 
 Though other eyes may guess thee not, 
 Thy mother still doth know her son. 
 Yea, though thou come to her as one 
 Raised from the dead. Old Helda tries 
 To speak — but words her tongue denies. 
 Then, as if touched by charmed spell, 
 From off her bending shoulders fell 
 The weight of years, she stood upright. 
 Her eyes beamed with their earlier light ; 
 Forward she sprang — now, now he knows 
 His mother — on her neck he falls, 
 Her widowed arms about him close, 
 And weeping, on his name she calls : 
 "MellefF! my son — or do I dream'? 
 Art thou my child, or dost but seem ? " 
 Aye, aye 'tis he, thou may'st believe 
 The lost is found, the dead doth live. 
 
3.74 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 The .shepherds' eyes are held no more, 
 
 They give him welcome o'er and o'er ; 
 
 And now they ask how all befell ; 
 
 And now the happy youth doth tell 
 
 That he, a slave in Tunis kept, 
 
 Yor years in bitter bondage w^ept, 
 
 Till sent from Amroom ransom came 
 
 Tor captive that should bear his name. 
 
 This burst his chains, and he hath come 
 
 To die upon his island home. 
 
 " And Melleff, son of ^yolfe— hast brought 
 
 \ 
 
 Tidings of him ?" He knoweth nought, 
 
 Not even his captivity ! 
 
 Old man, he brings no joy to thee ! 
 
 The price sharp self-denial won 
 
 Redeemed a slave, but not thy son ! * 
 
 * There are no family names among the Frisians, the patronymic Wolf- 
 son, Peterson, &c., serving to distinguish different individuals of the same 
 Christian name. These names, too, are so few, that the same is borne by 
 many, and of course such an accident as is described in the text, and is 
 actually affirmed to have happened in the case narrated by Kohl, is by 
 no means improbable. 
 
CANTO X. 
 
 THE EESCUE, 
 
 Where heaven's arch of flaming ether 
 Sahara clasps in close embrace, 
 Till 'twlxt upper fires and nether 
 Scarce the doubtful line you trace, 
 Mark yon lurid cloudlet swinging. 
 Rolling, eddying, thickening fast. 
 Broken sand-wreaths wildly flinging 
 Out upon the stifling blast ! 
 Is it then the robe that drapeth 
 Samiel in its burning fold, 
 And which thus he madly shapeth 
 To his form of fearful mould ? 
 Or the lightning's dread pavilion 
 
176 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Borne by fierce Euroclydon, 
 
 With its fringes dyed vermilion 
 
 In the blazing noonday sun 1 
 
 Nay, not these 1 what then hath shaken 
 
 Such a sand-shower o'er the plain 1 
 
 Flying steeds that do not slacken, 
 
 Steeds, whose riders draw not rein ! 
 
 He that foremost sharply spurreth 
 
 Wears a front that hero fits ; 
 
 Some great deed his spirit stirreth. 
 
 Triumph on his forehead sits ! 
 
 On his arm a maid he stayeth, 
 
 And her eye is calm and clear, 
 
 And her queenly brow betrayeth 
 
 Not a doubt, and not a fear. 
 
 At his belt a sword is gleaming, 
 
 Scarlet stains his vesture mar, 
 
 Tides from many a gash are streaming, 
 
 Purple wounds his visage scar. 
 
 Close and sharp hath been the fighting ; 
 
THE RESCUE. 177 
 
 Yea, for even the maiden's hand, 
 
 Suited ill for deadly smiting, 
 
 Grasps a short but blood-stained brand ! 
 
 In the gest of that same maiden, 
 
 In that hand with blood defiled, 
 
 And with mortal weapon laden, 
 
 Canst thou see the pacha's child ? 
 
 In that form of stately bearing, 
 
 In that look so proud and brave. 
 
 In that deed of highest daring. 
 
 Canst thou see the pacha's slave ? 
 
 Tell me, to discern art able 
 
 Fleecy cloud of sheenest ray 
 
 In that band of awful sable 
 
 Where the linked lightnings play ? 
 
 Dost thou know the quiet mountain 
 
 Where the humbled Titans sleep. 
 
 When red flame and fiery fountain 
 
 From the rent volcano leap ? 
 
 So in gentle heart close hidden 
 8* 
 
178 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Deep the electric current lies, 
 
 Till, by some strong passion bidden, 
 
 Forth the shattering levin flies ! 
 
 So in manly heart, though breathing 
 
 Scarce 'neath mountain-weight of woe, 
 
 Boils a flood that yet with seething 
 
 Lava-tides may overflow ! 
 
 'Twixt the midnight and the dawning, 
 Melleff" heard the cry of fear 
 Mingled with the deathly groaning, 
 Tramp of steed and clash of spear. 
 * Was it thine, that shriek despairing, 
 Sheltering angel of my life '? ' 
 Headlong then, like lion glaring. 
 Rushed he toward the sound of strife. 
 But too late ! amain they're flying 
 Through the moonlight with their prize- 
 Nouglit he meets save dead and dying, 
 And old Gerda with her cries. 
 
THE KESCUE. 179 
 
 In a breath behold him mounted, 
 Armed and dashing o'er the field, 
 With him horsemen ten, all counted 
 That might still a weapon wield. 
 Close the robber-tracks they follow, 
 Which the moon-rays still reveal, 
 And the earth rings deep and hollow 
 'Neath each flashing hoof of steel. 
 Now, brave Melleft', now God speed thee ! 
 Chains and wrongs thou hast forgot ! 
 She, thy guardian, she doth need thee. 
 Else thou dost remember nought ! 
 
 Fast they ride till Phosphor waning 
 Drowns in Phoebus' jets of gold, 
 Fast they ride, and fast are gaining 
 On the wild marauders bold, 
 Who are thundering down the valley, 
 Through the palm-grove far and fast. 
 Till with maddening speed they sally 
 
180 WOLFE OF THE Kl^OLL. 
 
 Out upon the desert waste. 
 Christian, let thy courage fliil not ! 
 Cheer thy feeble, fainting band ! 
 Ere the noontide, if they, quail not, 
 Yon proud sheikh shall bite the sand ! 
 He hath marked his swift pursuer, 
 Noted every shining lance. 
 And behold ! their number feNver 
 Tlian the third of those that glance 
 At his bidding ! Lo, he turneth, 
 Stays his followers in their flight, 
 Bids them count the foe he spurneth. 
 And address them to the fight. 
 
 While the trembling girl he places 
 In a faithful vassal's care. 
 She hath seen where Melleff chases 
 Hotly through the quivering air. 
 She hath heard the fital order : 
 " If, by ehar.cc thy chieftain fill, 
 
THE EESCHE. 181 
 
 Bear the maiden o'er the border 
 To Algeria's princely hall ! " 
 
 Hark, the shock.! the clang of weapons ! 
 They have met — the battle cry 
 Rises shrill — the conflict deepens — 
 How they charge, they wheel, they fly, 
 Then return, the fight renewing. 
 With a fierce and frantic yell, 
 Thirsty sands with blood bedewing — 
 Men are they, or fiends of hell ? 
 
 Fatmeh, see ! now here, now yonder, 
 How the bright-haired Northman wheels ! 
 Stroke on stroke like rattling thunder 
 With resistless arm he deals ! 
 Count the lifted spears that quiver, 
 Aimed at breast of Christian foe — 
 Count the broken spears that shiver 
 'Neath his swifter, surer blow ! 
 
182 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Now he fronts the bold Abdallah ; 
 Fiery chief, how low he lies ! 
 Furious shouts of Wallah ! Wallah ! 
 From his maddened followers rise. 
 Scathing flames of vengeance deaden 
 Memory to all other thought ; 
 Even he who guards the maiden 
 Hath his latest charge forgot. 
 Fierce he spurs, and fast he speedeth 
 Toward the crimson battle-ring. 
 Nor the shuddering Fatmeh heedeth, 
 If she fall, or if she cling. 
 Yet she clung, she saw them pressing 
 On her wounded champion sore, 
 Saw assailants still increasing, 
 Saw his visage stained with gore ! 
 Yet she clung ! convulsive holding 
 Fast her warder's silken sash, 
 And witliin its ample folding 
 Sudden saw a dagger flash. 
 
THE EESCUE. 183 
 
 Ere his hand, already lifted, 
 Could at Melleff hurl the dart, 
 She, with new-born virtue gifted, 
 Plunged that dagger in his heart ! 
 
 In a moment but who showeth 
 
 How, in such a blinding fray. 
 
 Where scarce foeman foeman knoweth — 
 
 Safe on MellefF's arm she lay ! 
 
 Wheeling then he swiftly darted 
 
 O'er the wild, like winged light, 
 
 And his little band, brave-hearted. 
 
 Covered well that headlong flight. 
 
 In that headlong flight behold them 
 
 Scorching sand-waves scouring o'er, 
 
 Though a backward glance hath told them 
 
 That the foe pursues no more. 
 
 See, alas ! the fair head droopeth, 
 Faints with fasting and fatigue ; 
 Yet the blasted waste stilJ slopeth 
 
184 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Eastward far for many a league. 
 And not yet the charm is spoken 
 By the magi of the West, 
 Bidding crystal streams unbroken 
 Gush from out its arid breast.* 
 Fount refreshing, fruit-tree laden — 
 Vain it were to seek them here ! 
 Must she perish, hapless maiden, 
 With a freedom bought so dear ? 
 
 Melleff, through the air's hot glimmer 
 Mark'st thou not yon lowly dome. 
 With its white, its dazzling shimmer ? 
 'Tis a holy Imaum's tomb ! 
 Ishmael's sons, in death still yearning 
 As in life, make latest choice 
 Of the desert bare and burning, 
 
 * The French have bored a considerable number of Artesian wells in 
 the Algerine Sahara,, and similar operations have been carried on within 
 a few years in Egypt, and other parts of Northern Africa. See an inter- 
 esting article in the Revue de TOrieut, for September, 1858. 
 
THE KESCTJE. 185 
 
 Where God heard their father's voice. 
 To the sacred precincts hasten ! 
 There, in memory of the dead 
 Whose pure life was but this lesson : 
 ' Plelp thy brother in his need ' — 
 Pious hands for desert ranger 
 Store have left of choicest fruit, 
 And to bless the thirsty stranger 
 Bared the spring to its deep root.* 
 Thither Melleff anxious flieth, 
 And beneath the welcome shade 
 Which the narrow dome supplieth, 
 Softly lays the unconscious maid ; 
 Then in trembling haste he bringeth 
 Water from the scanty well, 
 And the cooling drops he flingeth 
 O'er her, w^ake her like a spell. 
 Starting up, she names her father — 
 "Gerda, why hast left me so 1 " 
 
 * See Appendix IX. 
 
186 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 And, as one who clreameth rather, 
 Closely clasps her throbbing brow. 
 
 Oh, 'twere pity to behold her 
 Pale as Cynthia's struggling ray, 
 While the fever-mists enfold her 
 That she strives to chase away ! 
 Richer gifts of form and feature 
 Ne'er did mortal maiden share, 
 And to Melleif mortal creature 
 Never shone so heavenly fair. 
 He would die the doubt to banish 
 That with darkness fdls her brain — 
 Lo, the passing shadows vanish, 
 And her eye is clear again ! 
 
 " Aye, I know — yet why delay we ? 
 My deliverer, wherefore wait 1 
 Nefta's bowers lie far — why stay we ? 
 And my father's grief is great ! " 
 
THE EESCUE. 187 
 
 " Princess, let no doubt affray thee ! 
 We but sought a moment's rest ; 
 Take this draught, this fruit, I pray thee, 
 And we ride at thy behest." 
 
 Hurriedly the cup she draineth — 
 What new tidings of dismay 
 Brings the watchman, that constraineth 
 Melleff even to blanch away 1 
 They liave seen the dust-cloud rising, 
 Steely lightnings flash it through ! 
 Is its tawny mask disguising 
 Welcome friend or dreaded foe ? 
 Shall they fly, or shall they tarry 
 Till the painful doubt be clear ? 
 How the fickle judgments vary ! 
 Now tliey hope and now they fear. 
 AVith such burden wer't not better 
 Friend to miss than foe to meet ? 
 
188 WOLFE OF THE ICNOLL. 
 
 In the saddle they have set her, 
 Off they dash at furious heat. 
 
 Gallant heart ! was never braver 
 
 On a noble purpose bent. 
 
 But, alas ! thou canst not save her, 
 
 For thy flagging steed is spent. 
 
 Vain the spurring, the caressing ! 
 
 Like the fire-wave's rolling flow. 
 
 On thy track that cloud is pressing — 
 
 Thou must turn and face the foe ! 
 
 Foe — but stay ! whose pennon streameth 
 
 High above the smothering haze ? 
 
 Whose the armor bright that beameth 
 
 Forth with such a ruddy blaze ? 
 
 Now, be praise to Him that saveth ! 
 
 For the right He doth decide. 
 
 There Tunisia's banner waveth, 
 
 There her noble lord doth ride ! 
 
THE EESCUE. 189 
 
 How they send their shouts to heaven, 
 Shouts of triumph and of cheer, 
 When, as by a whirlwind driven, 
 Aali with his train sweeps near 
 
CANTO XI. 
 
 THE VISION. 
 
 The night-lamp's feeble flame burns low, 
 The trembling stars are looking through 
 The checkered lattice, and their light 
 Drops on the marble flooring bright 
 As Luna's beam on Northern night. 
 No flaunting silks, no stifling panes 
 Of crystal, or of varied stains, 
 Obstruct the brolcen rays that fall 
 In silver fretwork on the wall. 
 Where pearl with tortoise-shell coml/mes 
 In a mosaic chaste and rare, 
 Bordered with wreaths of golden vines, 
 That seem outfloatinsr on the air. 
 
THE VISION. 191 
 
 But gilded roof and arch are lost 
 In shadows that no star hath crossed. 
 A trickling fountain's lulling flow 
 Unseen doth greet the listener's ear, 
 While fannings of faint sweetness show 
 The lily and the rose are near ; 
 And there its drapery's glossy shine 
 Alone the silken couch betrays, 
 Where the j^ale Fatmeh doth recline. 
 O'er whom in silence Gerda prays. 
 For days hath frenzied fever laid 
 His fiery hand upon her head, 
 With phantoms dire her brain possessed, 
 And filled her soul with dark unrest. 
 The shadow of death's winoj is nigh ; 
 Oh, will he smite her, or pass by ? 
 
 At length the leaping pulses flow 
 More calmly ; since the midnight hours 
 She softly sleeps ; her breathing now 
 
192 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Is soundless as the breath of flowers. 
 In the old nurse there stirreth naught 
 Save the swift lightning of her thought, 
 That knows a readier path to find 
 To the far land that gave her birth, 
 Than through the electric links that bind 
 So close the once dissevered earth ; 
 For she hath fasted, prayed and wept, 
 Till the soul's vision, that had slept 
 Somewhat from age, now backward cast. 
 In one broad glance holds all the past. 
 
 No more a weak and withered thing, 
 Wasted by time and tears, she seems, 
 But a young wife, whose fresh glad spring 
 Is opening in love's sunniest beams. 
 Again on Iceland's rocky coast 
 She sits beneath the pole-star's ray, 
 Its pale, calm shining well nigh lost 
 In the wild North-light's dancing play ; 
 
THE VISION. 193 
 
 Again her childish fancy paints 
 
 Those silvery flashes as the light 
 
 Left by the wings of blessed saints, 
 
 Who take to God their happy flighty. 
 
 Far to the east stands Hecla, crowned 
 
 With roaring flame, and girt around 
 
 With everlasting icy chains, 
 
 Outpouring from his lava-veins 
 
 Rivers of fire, that red and wide 
 
 Are rolling down his snow-clad side. 
 
 The boiling Geysers thundering shoot 
 
 From seething fountains vast as seas 
 
 That lie beneath his burning foot, 
 
 And swing their arms upon the breeze, 
 
 Like giant palms of crystal, wrought 
 
 Till light as from Arachne caught. 
 
 Of the old landscape, oh, how clear 
 
 Each sight and sound strikes eye and ear ! 
 
 And yet the midnight sun hath cast 
 
 For fifty years his annual smile 
 9 
 
194 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Upon the snow-peaks of that isle 
 Since she hath looked upon it last. 
 Looked last ! she shudders ; fatal sight ! 
 Let l^ethe's mighty waters roll 
 Over the memory of that night, 
 And wash it from her troubled soul. 
 But no ! that image cannot fade, 
 'Tis drawn in blood upon her heart, 
 Its crimson lines too deep inlaid 
 To pale till soul and body part ; — 
 The midnight yell, the bolt's sharp crash, 
 The turbaned corsair*s demon eyes, 
 The crescent-cimetar's keen flash 
 'Neath which her murdered father lies, 
 Her shrieking infant wrenched away 
 From her and cast to earth like clay, 
 The cries of the resisting band 
 Led down despairing to the sea. 
 The death-strokes dealt by Olaf 's hand. 
 His groan of hopeless agony, 
 
THE VISION. 195 
 
 When bleeding, dying, on the shore 
 He lay, while hellish pirates bore 
 His Gerda to their bark accursed — * 
 These sights, these sounds of woe now burst 
 Upon her senses with a power, 
 A weight of horror, scarcely less 
 Than in the first o'erwhelming hour 
 That sealed her doom of wretchedness. 
 Again the sea's deep moan she hears. 
 Unmeaning words are in her ears. 
 And now a fellow-captive's wail 
 Is mingled with the sobbing gale. 
 
 Yet are these memories more dim ; 
 Soon as the crushing blow was dealt. 
 Over her soul strange stupor came. 
 The broken heart but little felt. 
 That voyage of months — it fills no space 
 On the broad tablet of her thought — 
 
 * See Appendix X, 
 
196 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 A blackness that revealeth naught, 
 
 A point alone that hath but place. 
 
 But when they reached the hateful shore, 
 
 Then was the unconscious respite o'er, 
 
 Then did her tortured bosom swell 
 
 With anguish wild, unutterable. 
 
 The market-place — O Gerda ! why 
 
 Wilt thou recall that agony ? 
 
 Nay, pass it o'er ! pass all those years 
 
 When day and night thy meat was tears — • 
 
 Pass onward to the better hour 
 
 That freed thee from a tyrant's power, 
 
 And placed thee in young Maani's bower ! 
 
 There gentle pity didst thou find 
 
 With her, the generous, true and kind. 
 
 Sweet Maani! through the Orient famed, 
 
 The fairest rose that e'er had birth 
 
 In far Circassia, meetly named 
 
 Mother of beauty for the earth — 
 
 Alas ! not hope that smiled before her. 
 
THE VISIOIT. 197 
 
 Not all the love that Aali bore her, 
 
 Not the dear infant on her heart, 
 
 Could save her from the icy dart 
 
 Of Death, whom grief, reproach and .prayer 
 
 Alike have striven to move in vain. 
 
 Since the first hour of his dark reign, 
 
 The loveliest and the best to spare. 
 
 From all that joy in life could waken 
 
 Was the blest wife and mother taken — 
 
 And she^ of every pleasure reft, 
 
 The wretched, hopeless captive left. 
 
 And yet — how strange ! the orphan child 
 
 Turned first to that despairing face, 
 
 And with a baby's matchless grace 
 
 Stretched forth its little arms and smiled. 
 
 Since then for Fatmeh hath she not 
 Felt all a mother's heart could feel, 
 And in that love nigh half forgot 
 Herself a slave, an exile still ? 
 
198 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Now must she lose her ? will she die 1 
 Old dame, the cruel thought forbear — 
 'Twill slay thee ; turn again to prayer ; 
 God will not leave thee utterly ! 
 She stirs, she speaks, thy foster-child — 
 Listen if still her words be wild ! 
 
 " Gerda ! art here ? Oh, I have seen 
 
 A vision of such bliss to-night, 
 
 A glory so exceeding bright, 
 
 God's j)aradise it must have been. 
 
 I saw His blessed angels there, 
 
 Saints crowned with immortality, 
 
 I saw my mother wondrous fiiir, 
 
 And knew her, though none showed it me 
 
 Into her opening arms I flew. 
 
 And on her soft and loving breast 
 
 She rocked me to a sweeter rest 
 
 Than ever weary childhood knew. 
 
 It was not sleep, for I could see 
 
THE VISION. 199 
 
 The glory still that circled me^ 
 
 And I could hear from golden lyres, 
 
 Swept by the hand of seraph-choirs, 
 
 Harmonious ravishment that thrilled 
 
 Beyond the power of song, that filled 
 
 My being to its utmost core 
 
 With rapture all undreamed before, 
 
 And in my soul sweet longings stirred 
 
 To be but one with what I heard. 
 
 It was not sleep ! and yet I saw 
 
 Not all those heavenly eyes discerned — 
 
 I knew it by the holy awe 
 
 That through their milder meanings burned ; 
 
 The majesty reflected there 
 
 Was all that mortal sight could bear 
 
 Then one drew near with floating tread ; 
 I knew her straightway ; it was she, 
 Who in the garden of the dead 
 Near Tunis, by the sounding sea, 
 
200 ' WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Doth sleep — the princess Moonkir Lore 
 From Frankistan's remotest shore, 
 And gave a rest so long, so' calm, 
 On the blest shore of El-Islam, 
 Beneath the aloe, by the side 
 Of him for whom she meekly died. 
 And very meek the smile that lay 
 Upon her lips, as it would say, 
 ' Less worthy I the crown of light 
 Than these who fought a better fight.' 
 " Sister," she said — and her tones fell 
 So softly that I cannot tell 
 If it were sound — " Oh, learn of me, 
 'Tis well to keep thy verity ! 
 A holier cause than earthly lov^e 
 Alone a maiden's heart should move 
 To leave her father and her faith. 
 Yet know, 'tis higher, greater fiir. 
 To live and conquer in such war 
 Than cowardly to call on Death. 
 
THE VISION. 201 
 
 Die unto self! aye, nobly slay, 
 With Allah's aid, that birth of sin 
 Which eats thy budding wings away, 
 And, grub-like, leaves but dust within. 
 Then live to God for man, till He 
 Take thee to His eternity ! " 
 The vision passed w^hile yet she spoke, 
 And full of joy and peace I Avoke. 
 Gerda, 'tis not the moment now, 
 Had I the power, to tell thee how 
 My heart hath tempted me to fly 
 With Melleff, or, renouncing, die ! 
 Enough — at length my heaven-taught soul 
 Pants high for a diviner goal — 
 Is strong to take the longest road. 
 The roughest, mortal ever trod, 
 So it but lead at last to God — 
 To lose for earth one single beam 
 That crowned the pure immortal day 
 Beheld in my departed dream, 
 
202 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Were price too heavy far to pay. 
 Life's passing ills no more I blame, 
 E'en sorrow scarce deserves a name, 
 So brief her hour. Oh nurse, I know, 
 This thou hadst taught me long ago. 
 But happy youth will learn but slow ! 
 Now my first prayer, 'let others see, 
 Father, what thou hast shown to me,' 
 And for myself but this alone, 
 The first, the last, ' Thy will be done ! ' 
 One work accomplished, then am I 
 Alike content to live or die." 
 
 She ceased, and fainting sank away 
 More wan than the first daylight ray 
 That full upon her forehead lay. 
 The trembling Gerda hastes to shed 
 The spicy waters on her head. 
 Throws back the mantling cloud of hair, 
 And bathes her in the morninsi; air. 
 
THE VISION. 203 
 
 At last, the deathly weakness o'er, 
 She lifts her languid lids once more. 
 
 " Where is my father ? doth he wake 1 " 
 " Aye, child and long, for thy dear sake." 
 
 " Then pray him, of his love, come near, 
 For I would speak what he should hear." 
 
 The pacha stood beside her bed, 
 
 The tears that manhood shames to shed 
 
 Pressed back, and, stooping calm and slow, 
 
 Kissed tenderly her ivory brow. 
 
 " Father, my feet have stood to-nigh, 
 
 Within the very gates of light ! 
 
 Such grace hath Allah show^n to me 
 
 That I am bold to sue to thee. 
 
 Then, for my mother's sake and mine — 
 
204: WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Nay, rather, that God's face may shine 
 On thee when thou shalt stand alone 
 For judgment at his awful throne — * 
 Oh, set thy Christian captives free, 
 And send them safely o'er the sea ! 
 What Melleff 's hand for me hath wrought 
 This grace from thee hath nobly bought. 
 Grant but my prayer — duty and love 
 What else I cannot speak, shall prove ! " 
 
 Again she swoons ! how like to death ! 
 No fluttering throb, no faintest breath 
 That marble stirs ! Oh, was she taught 
 To live a true, great life for naught ? 
 For naught ! is this thy wisdom's reach ? 
 That lesson deeply learned, what more 
 Doth the immortal on the shore 
 Of time, which can no further teach 1 
 
 * All shall appear at the Judgment, and every man alone. Koran. 
 
THE VISION. 205 
 
 The father with a heay groan 
 Turns from his child. With a low moan 
 Upon her neck falls Gerda — nay, 
 Now lift her not ! 'tis clay- to clay ! 
 
CANTO XII. 
 
 THE EETUEN. 
 
 On the mainland stood the sun, 
 
 Looking \Yestward o'er the water, 
 
 Till its glassy surface shone, 
 
 Crimson as a field of slaughter. 
 
 Wrapped in lightest autumn-haze 
 
 Amroom rested on the ocean, 
 
 "Whose broad breast had heaved for days 
 
 Only with a tidal motion. 
 
 Not a breeze, in cloudy car, 
 
 O'er the morning sky was sweeping ; 
 
 Hushed, all nature, near and far, 
 
 Lay as in the calmest sleeping. 
 
 Shepherds, silent as the scene. 
 
THE EETTJEN. 207 
 
 Down their steepy hillocks wended, 
 And to pastures paly green, 
 With their eager flocks, descended. 
 Why so gravely toward the sea — 
 Each as neighbor neighbor passes — 
 Point they, though upon the lea 
 Not a zephyr stirs the grasses 1 
 Do their quicker senses hear 
 Aught that may the storm betoken ? 
 To the sod now lay thine ear — 
 Lo, the charmed silence broken ! * 
 First by low and tender moans, 
 As of music that complaineth, 
 Then by deep and heavy groans, 
 As when anguish strong constraineth. 
 Now, as if the south wind passed 
 Through the pine-tree softly, sadly, 
 Now, as if the whirlwind's blast 
 Smote the forest fiercely, madly. 
 
 * See Appendix XI. 
 
208 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Nearer now, and yet more loud, 
 As when voiced lightnings quiver 
 Through the black tornado-cloud. 
 And the reeling cedars shiver. 
 'Tis the far-off chariot roll 
 Of the west wind, wildly speeding 
 Onward to its unseen goal, 
 Man and his poor works unheeding. 
 Woe to him whose careless sail 
 On the tempest's track is flying ! 
 Fathom-deep, ere daylight fail. 
 Shall that hapless bark be lying. 
 Though for hours these waters sleep 
 Calm as 'lake in sheltering mountains, 
 While afar the mighty deep 
 Eolls upbroken to its fountains, 
 Yet round Amroom, isle of storms, 
 Shadows ere the sunset hover ; 
 Night and cloud, their dusky forms 
 Mingling, soon its face will cover. 
 
THE EETTIEN. 209 
 
 Howling Avinds blow high and cold ; 
 Fast the shrouding darkness thickens ; 
 Safe to house his shivering fold 
 Now his step the shepherd quickens. 
 Haste to aid him, wife and child ! 
 Lest, before the work be ended, 
 Sky and shore and ocean wild 
 In one midnight deep be blended ! 
 
 All are sheltered ; thanking God, 
 Round their scanty fire they gather, 
 Calm they sit, as if abroad 
 Shone the softest, sunniest weather. 
 Not a glance of fear they cast 
 At the hissing waters round them, 
 Though the billow and the blast 
 Rise as if no fetter bound them. 
 Trusting in their Father's care, 
 Who will leave not nor forsake them, 
 
210 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 With a short and childlike prayer 
 They to needful rest betake them. 
 
 Through the tempest's troubled roll 
 Is there then no eye but sleepeth ? 
 Aye ! for still uj)on the knoll 
 Wolfe his patient vigil keepeth ! 
 Even that last, that cruel blow, 
 His unbroken faith surviveth, 
 Saying still, with Job, ' 1 know 
 Surely my Eedeemer liveth ! ' 
 When from that long swoon he woke. 
 Straight to Heaven did he address him. 
 And the first fiiint words he spoke — 
 ' Though He slay me 1 will bless Him '- 
 Scarce his shrunken lips had passed, 
 When the postman's bark came flying 
 O'er the cold gray waters fast 
 Toward the beach where he was lying. 
 Man of sorrow, lift thy head ! 
 
THE RETUEX. 211 
 
 Comfort to thy heart it bringeth, 
 Hope, whose very root seemed dead, 
 Into sudden freshness springeth ! 
 Letters in his hand they phiced — 
 Letters, and his son doth send them ! 
 Those clear lines so boldly traced, 
 Who but Melleff 's self had penned them 1 
 ' He was free, on Christian land. 
 Hurriedly was homeward pressing, 
 And should reach their island-strand 
 Ere the winter, with God's blessing ! ' 
 
 From that hour Wolfe standeth strong, 
 Cloudless peace his soul possesses ; 
 Though the Avaiting hath been long. 
 Not a doubt his heart distresses. 
 Day by day and week by week, 
 From the dawning until even, 
 Still he gazes, childly meek, 
 Seaward now, and now toward Heaven. 
 
212 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 And to-night, though winds are high, 
 Friends in vain to rest entreat him ; 
 " Sure," he saith, " my son is nigh, 
 And I must be here to greet him ! " 
 
 Hark ! the tide's advancing roar ; 
 Shepherds, brief will be your sleeping ! 
 Wave rolls wave against the shore, 
 Each in scorn the last o'erleaping. 
 Now the trembling mounds they smite, 
 Close around their base« curling ; 
 O'er the roofs with doubling might 
 Briny flakes they now are hurling ! 
 Cynthia, through the wind-rent cloud 
 O'er her rising glory drifted, 
 Sees above the foamy shroud 
 Cot and down alone uplifted. 
 How the cabins heave and rock 
 On the feathery crested surges. 
 While each quick returning shock 
 
THE EETUEN. 213 
 
 Half the dripping thatch submerges ! 
 Breaking faintly through the gloom, . 
 Lo, the feeble taper gleameth, 
 riieth fast from room to room, 
 Through each narrow casement streameth ! 
 They would save their household store — 
 Hurriedly aloft they bear it, 
 Pile it high above the floor. 
 So perchance the flood may spare it ! 
 Silent then, with awe-struck look. 
 Close they press, while o'er them dashes 
 Wave on wave, with thundering shock. 
 And, beneath, the frail shed crashes. 
 
 Where is Wolfe ? upon the down 
 Still he stands with soul unshaken ; 
 Ocean's rage, the sky's wild frown. 
 Not a thought of fear can waken. 
 Cloven billows, higher, higher. 
 Round his pigmy isle are springing ; 
 
214 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Darting up like tongues of fire, 
 To his very feet they're clinging ! 
 Yet he heeds them not ; his eye 
 Throusjh the blindino; nio-ht he straineth 
 Toward the j)erilous road, where lie 
 Ships, when stormy darkness reigneth. 
 Lo, througli folded clouds the moon 
 AVith her silvery arrow pierces, 
 For a moment glances down, 
 And the thickest gloom disperses. 
 Some dark shape uj)on the tide. 
 Heaving slow, his vision fancies, 
 While along its blackened side 
 Light and free the sea-foam dances. 
 Dreamer, mocked for many a year. 
 Oft the broken reed hath thrust thee ! 
 Schooled so sternly, dost thou dare 
 On a hope so frail to trust thee ? 
 Yea ! and through that awful night 
 With this hope his heart o'erflowetli, 
 
THE EETUEN. 215 
 
 Joyfully expects the light, 
 That the vessel surely showeth. 
 Tond old man, alas for thee ! 
 Other sight thine eyes awaiteth 
 When the troops of darkness flee, 
 And the angry flood abateth ! 
 
 Now spent ocean seeks his bed ; 
 Morning in the orient lightens. 
 Robes the flying clouds with red, 
 And the weeping islet brightens. 
 Watcher, turn thee toward thy cot ! 
 Lo, the angel that destroyeth. 
 Save thy life, hath left thee naught, 
 All in hopeless ruin lieth. 
 On the turfless, crumbling mound 
 Scarce an upright pile remaineth. 
 While the shapeles^wreck around 
 Even the hungry sea disdaineth. 
 There the pitying neighbors throng, 
 
216 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 Crying, " Hath our God forsaken 
 One that hath been tried so long ? 
 Let his loving kindness waken ! " 
 
 Brave old man ! that sight the while 
 
 Stirs in him no strong emotion, 
 
 But again with chastened smile 
 
 Turns he to the throbbing ocean. 
 
 There she lies, a noble ship ! 
 
 And the tempest hath not scathed her, 
 
 Though her shrouds and canvas drip 
 
 With the drenching floods that bathed her ! 
 
 Springing from its perch, a bark 
 
 Wide its snowy Avings outstretches, 
 
 Flies, like arrow to the mark, 
 
 Isle-ward till the shore it reaches. 
 
 Lo, he comes ! and faith hath won 
 
 Her reward thai faileth never. 
 
 " Now it is enough, my son ! 
 
 Blessed be His name forever ! " 
 
THE KETUEN. 217 
 
 Ye that, for love of the lowly, so long 
 
 Have patiently followed my simple song, 
 
 Do ye plain the lot of om' MellefF still, 
 
 Though free over Amroom he w'alks at will 1 
 
 Then ye know not how dear, if loved from birth, 
 
 The dreariest sod of a sin-cursed earth ! 
 
 Ye know not the bondman's bitter estate. 
 
 The soul's keen joy with new freedom elate ; ^ 
 
 Ye know not how sweet on a father's head 
 
 The oil of gladness unmeasured to shed, 
 
 To purple his sunset with purer dye 
 
 Than ever had flushed in his morning sky ! 
 
 Ye know not 'tis blesseder far to see 
 
 The idol we worship stretch suddenly 
 
 The wings of its glory, and fill the place 
 
 With brightness that proveth its heavenly race — 
 
 Though at last it soar, in its shining flight. 
 
 Too high to be followed by mortal sight — • 
 
 Oh, blesseder far, than our incense to w^aste 
 
 On what but seems with divinity graced, 
 10 
 
218 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 To kneel for long years, and cast at its feet 
 Our heart's best gifts as an offering meet — 
 Yet the altar still cold, nor voice nor sign 
 Proclaim the fair image indeed divine — 
 To see its proud colors fade day by day, 
 Its faultless lines crumble slowly away, 
 Till we find, at last, 'tis but common clay ! 
 
APPEiXDIX TO WOLFE OF THE KJfOLL. 
 
 I. 
 
 For a mightie great compasse, their countrey lieth so under the 
 Ocean, and subject to the tide, that twice in a day & night by turnes, 
 the sea overfloweth a mightie deale of ground when it is floud, & 
 leaveth all drie again at the ebbe & return of the water : insomuch, as 
 a man can hardly tell what to make of the outward face of the earth 
 in those parts, so doubtfull it is between sea and land. The poore siUie 
 people that inhabit those parts, either keepe together on such high 
 hils as Nature hath afforded here & there in the plain : or els raise 
 mounts with their owne labour and handle Avorke (Uke to tribunals 
 cast up and reared with turfe, in a campe) above the height of the sea, 
 at any Spring tide when the floud is highest ; and thereupon they set 
 their cabines and cottages. Thus dwelling as they doe, they seerae 
 (when it is high water, and that all the plaine is overspread with the 
 sea round about) as if they were in Httle barkes floting in the middest 
 of the sea : againe, at a low water when the sea is gone, looke upon 
 them, you would take them for such as had suffered shipwracke, hav- 
 ing their vessels cast away, and left lying ato-side amid the sands : for 
 yee shall see the poore wretches fishing about their cottages, and fol- 
 lowing after the fishes as they go away with the water. They have 
 not a four-footed beast among them : neither enjoy they any benefite 
 of milke, as their neighbour nations doe : nay, they are destitute of 
 all meanes to chase wild beasts, and hunt for venison ; in as much as 
 there is neither tree nor bush to give them harbour, nor any weare 
 
220 APPENDIX TO WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 unto them by a great way. Sea-weeds or R^ke, rushes and reeds 
 growing upon the washes and meeres, serve them to twist for cords to 
 make their fishing nets with. These poore soules and siUie creatures 
 are faine to gather a sliraie kind of fattie mud or oase, with their very 
 hands, which they drie against the wind rather than the Sunne ; and 
 with that earth, for want of other fewell, they make fire to seeth their 
 meat (such as it is) and heat the inward parts of their bodie, readie to 
 be Starke and stiffe againe with the chilUng North wind. No other 
 drinke have they but raine water, which they save in certaine ditches 
 after a shower, and those they dig at the very cntrie of their cottages. 
 And yet see ! this people (as wretched and miserable a case as they 
 bee in) if they were subdued at this day by the people of Rome, would 
 say (and none sooner than they) that they lived in slaverie. Pliny, 
 Natural History, Book XVI. Chap. I. 
 
 II. 
 
 The ambassadors Verritus and Maloriges (in Frisic probably Fred- 
 dens und Malrichsen) were complimented by an invitation to the 
 theatre of Pompey, to witness a public entertainment. Being re- 
 garded as rustics, or rather semi-barbarians, they were not conducted 
 to the box reserved for the imperial and royal diplomatic circle, but 
 shown to seats in the second tier. Enquiring of their valet de place 
 who the dignitaries were in the conspicuous lodge occupied by the 
 foreign ministers, they were told that these were their Excellencies, 
 the ambassadors from the kings and the great nations of the earth. 
 Upon this, they exclaimed, "Na worum schalt wi denn do nich sittcn ? 
 Sin wir Freschen denn nich eben so god as de annern ? Wat ji Romers 
 nich, det de Diitschen bater upkloppen kiint, un mehr Tril un Globen 
 haft as de alle tosomen ! " which Tacitus expresses in a very pompous, 
 Italian, and un-Frisic way : " nullos mortalium armis aut fide ante 
 Germanos esse." They now made their way, without ceremony, to 
 the diplomatic box, and took their seats with the other ambassadors, 
 which, as Tacitus says, was well received, as a sample of primitive 
 spirit, " comiter a visentibus exceptum quasi impetus antiqui." Kohl, 
 Vol. II, p. 825. 
 
APPENDIX TO WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 221 
 
 III. 
 
 Water is usually distributed to private houses in the east by carriers 
 provided with goat-skins holding seven or eight gallons. These are 
 filled at public fountains erected by the charity of the rich, and the 
 water is sold in the streets, and very generally given freely to the 
 poor. 
 
 " I was one day sitting," says Prax, " at the door of a coffee-house, 
 when a boy came up with a full water-skin. He cried, ' Whosoever 
 shall give four nasseri (one cent and a half) to relieve the thirst of the 
 poor, shall see the mercy of God upon himself and his ancestors ! ' I 
 gave him the four nasseri, and drank from a cup presented me by the 
 sakka. He then offered the water to all comers, crying, ' ye that 
 are athirst ! behold water given for the love of God ! May the donor 
 of this water see the mercy of God shed abroad upon his fathers.' " 
 Revue de I'Orient, November, 1849. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The Prophet is traditionally reported to have said : Upon him who 
 is hospitable God will bestow twenty gifts : 
 Wisdom ; 
 A sure word ; 
 The fear of God ; 
 A heart always glad ; 
 He shall hate none ; 
 He shall not be proud ; 
 He shall not be jealous ; 
 Sadness shall flee away from him ; 
 He shall hospitably receive all ; 
 He shall be beloved of all ; 
 
 He shall be respected, though he be of humble birth ; 
 His goods shall be increased ; 
 His life shall be blessed ; 
 He shall be patient ; 
 He shall be discreet ; 
 He shall be always contented ; 
 
222 APPENDIX TO WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 He shall care little for the good things of this world ; 
 
 If he stumbles, God shall uphold him ; 
 
 His sins shall be forgiven him ; 
 
 And, finally, God shall preserve him from the evil which may fall 
 from the heavens or rise from the earth. 
 
 Be generous to thy guest, for he cometh to thee with his good : 
 when he entereth in, he bringeth thee a blessing ; and when he de- 
 partcth, he carrieth away thy sins. 
 
 V. 
 
 A Ilallig preacher described to me his arrival in his parish much 
 as follows : 
 
 " My reception was very touching," said he, hardly able to repress 
 his tears. " How so, pastor ? " asked I. " Well, I came down the 
 geest (the mainland) with my wife, in a heavily-loaded waggon, for we 
 had, besides our clothing, many things that good friends here and 
 there had given us, to help our housekeeping on the Hallig. We 
 reached the shore a day later than we expected, and found the boat 
 that had been sent over for us lying by the dike. The poor people 
 had waited two days, and had uncomfortable quarters in the mean 
 time. They welcomed us, took our baggage on board, and we shoved 
 off. We soon approached a waste, treeless island, and I asked the 
 men if that was their Hallig. They took off their hats, and answered, 
 ' Yes, pastor,' and I turned to my wife, and said, ' There, my child, 
 that is the island where we are to live ! ' When we landed on the 
 Hallig, we found the whole congregation assembled, men, women, and 
 the children too, which much affected me. ' Did some one of the 
 committee or the elders make a formal speech to you ? ' asked I. 
 ' Oh no, not that.' ' Did the women and girls sing a song of wel- 
 come ? ' ' Oh, no ; these good people never sing but in church.' I 
 got out of the boat, helped my wife out, and said to them, 'Good 
 morning, my dear children ! I have brought you your pastor and 
 pastoress. God bless you ! ' ' Did the girls scatter flowers before you, 
 or bring you wreaths ? ' ' Oh, no, they have no flowers.' The men all 
 came and pressed my hand in silence, and the women caressed us, and 
 
APPENDIX TO WOLFE OF THE KN^OLL. 223 
 
 patting our shoulders, said, ' Good pastor and dear pastoress ! It is 
 very kind of you to be willing to be our pastor and pastoress ! ' And 
 then they gathered up our boxes and bundles, each one taking a par- 
 cel, and led us to our house, which they had nicely swept and aired. 
 The old men whispered to me that I need not fear for my salary, for 
 they had collected it, and were ready to pay the whole sixty thalers* 
 in advance. Then they showed me my garden-plot, and the church, 
 which had also been swept. ' Had they dressed it with green branches ? ' 
 ' Oh, no, they have neither branches nor trees, but they had hoisted a 
 flag, which was waving in the wind, as they do on all festive occasions.' 
 Many of them were affected to tears, and my wife and I could not 
 control our emotion." Kohl, I. 349. 
 
 The usual period of leaving the islands (to engage in foreign mari- 
 time service) is St. Peter's day, which falls on the 29th of June. Many 
 small vessels are freighted with mariners bound for the ports of Hol- 
 land, and the wives, mothers, sisters, and sweethearts of the departing 
 sailors assemble to bid them adieu. They gather upon an old heathen 
 funeral mound in the island of Fohr, in their antiquated and picturesque 
 costumes, accompanied by children and superannuated mariners, and 
 make farewell signals from shore to ship, and from bhip to shore, as 
 long as they remain in sight of each other. St. Peter's day is also the 
 general business day of the island. Old debts are paid, new ones in- 
 curred, and especially matrimonial engagements contracted, so that it 
 is at once the most important epoch of the yeai', and an anniversary 
 around which many of the most painful as well as tender and hopeful 
 associations chng. Kohl, Vol. I. p. 155. 
 
 YII. 
 
 Amber is found in considerable quantities on the coasts of Schleswig- 
 Holstein, the neighboring islands, and Jutland, as well as on the south- 
 ern shores of the Baltic. It is thrown up on the beach by tempestuous 
 
 * Sixty thalers, or about forty-five dollars, is the annual salary of a Hallig pastor 
 
224: APPENDIX TO WOLFE OF THE IvNOLL. 
 
 weather, and sometimes on strands where the rise of the tide is so 
 rapid that the gatherers of amber find it necessary to seek for it on 
 horseback, in order to be able to escape from the returning flood. A 
 single piece sometimes sells for several hundred dollars, but success in 
 the search is so uncertain that it is, upon the whole, an unprofitablti 
 occupation. 
 
 In one of the North-Frisian dialects, amber is called gUes^ a name 
 known to none of the Germanic family, but which is evidently identi- 
 cal with the glesum of Tacitus (whence also the appellation Insulas 
 Glessariae, or amber-islands.) Sed et mare scrutantur, ac soli omnium 
 succinum, quod ipsi glesum vocant, inter vada atque in ipso litore, 
 legunt. Tacitus de Germania, XLV. Kohl, Vol. III. p. 245. 
 
 According to an Arabian traveller of the tenth century cited by 
 Ritter, Erdkunde, XIII. 749, the camels of Hadhramaut were employed 
 in seeking amber upon the coasts of the Red Sea, being taught to kneel 
 when they saw it glitter in the moonshine. 
 
 YIII. 
 
 The sand was drifting up day and night, and it was found impossible 
 to make the windows and doors tight enough to exclude it, nor did it 
 avail to shovel out the perpetually renewed incumbrance. Too poor to 
 build a new church, the people continued to occupy this as long as 
 possible. 
 
 The floor, and then the pews, were covered, the pulpit itself half 
 buried in sand, and the congregation were seated upon the sand around 
 it. At last the church was so nearly filled up that they could barely 
 creep in at a window. 
 
 Divine service was now held in the church for the last time, the con- 
 gregation broken up, and the building sold. 
 
 The purchaser employed such of the wood as he could save, in con- 
 structing a house, reserving the altar and the pulpit for finishing the 
 cabin of his ship. On what far coast the vessel Avith her consecrated 
 cabin-furniture was stranded at last, none could say. Kohl, Vol. II. 
 p. 15Y. 
 
APPENDIX TO WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 225 
 
 IX. 
 
 Sidi-Mohammcd-el-Gandouz, who lived, died and was buried on th*e 
 Bpot where the piety of the faithful has since raised the marabout or 
 funeral-chapel which bears his name, was renowned for the hospitality • 
 which travellers and the poor received from him. 
 
 Passing caravans aided his charities by leaving with him dried meats, 
 flour, dates, butter, &c., which he distributed among the poor, Avhose 
 supplies were exhausted, and the indigent pilgrims who came to visit 
 him and pray with him. The practice has been kept up since his de- 
 cease. No caravan passes his tomb without stopping to pray and leave 
 a donation. All comers are allowed to enter the chapel, eat their fill, 
 and satisfy their thirst ; but woe to him who should carry any thing away ! 
 He would surely perish on his journey. ' There is none to watch the 
 offerings, but there is no instance of the abuse of this ' hospitality of 
 God.' 
 
 Charity, saith the Prophet, extinguishes sin, as water quencheth fire. 
 
 It closeth seventy gates of evil. 
 
 An angel standeth at the gates of Paradise, cryiug ; " Whosoever 
 giveth alms to-day, shall be filled to-morrow." Daumas,rAlgerie. 95, 
 
 X. 
 
 In the year 162'7, four Barbary corsairs visited various points of 
 the coast of Iceland, plundered or destroyed churches, houses, and 
 other property, killed thirty or forty of the natives, and carried off 
 three hundred and fifty captives, among whom were two clergymen, 
 with their families. Several causes, among which the principal was 
 the treachery of persons who were intrusted with means to ransom 
 them, prevented their release until 1635. 
 
 Some of them having become renegades, and many having died or 
 been sold into distant slavery, only thirty-seven were found, and of 
 these but thirteen lived to regain their native land. A brief notice of 
 these occurrences will be found in Finn Jensen's Hist. EccL Islandia-, 
 Vol. III. p. 83, and more particular narratives were published by Olaf 
 Egilsson, one of the captives, by Klas Eyolfsson and by Bjorn a Skardsa 
 10* 
 
APPENDIX TO WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Our guide drew our attention to a roaring sound proceeding from 
 the sea, which he said indicated a change of wind, and the approach of 
 a storm. We heard a distant noise, which was more distinctly percep- 
 tible on applying the ear to the ground on the flats. Near us all was 
 still, and as far as we could see, the finest weather. But in the far dis- 
 tance, there was a roaring and raging, as if all nature was in commotion. 
 We could hardly imagine that it proceeded merely from the concussion 
 of drops of water, and bubbles of foam. It sounded as if beams of wood 
 were tumbling over each other, and shattering to splinters, and often 
 there were harsh and clearly defined noises, as if a heap of cannon balls 
 or rocks were rolling down a mountain. The sounds indeed were not 
 so loud as when near at hand, but they were sharper, more rattling and 
 crashing, so that it seemed scarcely possible that water could produce 
 them. Kohl, II. p. 2'7. 
 
POEMS. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 NIOETHK AND SKATHI 
 
 The third god [after Odin] is he who is named Niorthr ; he dwells 
 in heaven, where it is called Noatiin ; he rules the going of the wind, 
 and stills the sea and the fire ; on him should men call in seafaring and 
 fishing. He is so rich and lucky, that he can give to those who ask 
 him much land or loose-goods. * * * * Kiorthr has a wife named 
 Skathi, the daughter of the giant Thiassi. Skathi would occupy the 
 dwelling-place of her father ; it is on certain fells, where it is called 
 Thrumheimr ; but Niorthr would five by the sea. They agreed to 
 this ; that they would stay nine nights at Thrumheimr, and then other 
 nine at Xuatun. And when Niorthr came back to Nuatun from the 
 fell, he chanted this : 
 
 Lei5 erumk fjoll, 
 varka ek lengi, 
 nsetr einar ix. ; 
 ulfa f)ytr 
 
 raer Jjotti illr vera 
 hjd. sungvi svana. 
 
 Tired am I of the fell, 
 
 I was not long there. 
 
 Nine nights only ; 
 
 The wolves' howling 
 
 Seemed to me ill, 
 
 To the song of the swans. 
 
 Then Skathi chanted this : 
 
 
 Sofa ek mattat 
 saefar beSjum d. 
 fugls jarmi fyrir; 
 sa mik vekr, 
 er af vi6i kemr, 
 
 Sleep I could not 
 
 On the sea shore 
 
 For the screaming of the bird; 
 
 He wakes me, 
 
 That comes from the sea, 
 
 morgun hverjan mar. 
 
 The mew, every morning. 
 
230 POEMS. 
 
 Then Skathi went up to the fells, and dwelt in Thrumheim. She runs 
 much on snow-shoes, carries a bow, and shoots wild animals ; she is 
 styled the snow-shoe goddess. Edda Snorra Sturlusonar, Gylfaginning, 
 K. 23. 
 
 SONG OF NIORTHR. 
 
 I WEDDED flxir Skathi, 
 The mountain nymph free, 
 And bride was there never 
 More winsome than she ; 
 The crimson that dyeth 
 Her cheek and her lip, 
 Is richer than sunset 
 On ocean asleep — 
 Yet my stay was not long — 
 Nine nights and no more — though my love was so strong ! 
 
 As lustrous and wavy 
 Her ringlets of gold 
 As cloudlets of summer. 
 Fold roll in or o'er fold. 
 
NIORTHR AND SKATHI. 231 
 
 The voice of her laughter 
 Is sweet as the brook's 
 When he hides in the valley 
 'Neath moss-covered rocks. 
 Yet my stay was not long — 
 Nine nights and no more — though my love was so strong ! 
 
 The towers of her flither 
 Black crags overhung, 
 .« And downward, till evening, 
 
 Their cold shadows flung ; 
 The sun they close followed, 
 Still holding, the while. 
 Their ice-covered mantles 
 'Twixt us and his smile. 
 So my stay was not long — 
 Nine nights and no more — though my love was so strong ! 
 
 For how could I slumber ! 
 All night the storm's breath 
 
232 POEMS. 
 
 Wailed low through the valley- 
 Like moanings of death, 
 Then smote, in its fury. 
 The fir-tree that bowed, 
 And snapped like a bow-string, — 
 The w^olves howled aloud. 
 So my stay was not long — 
 Nine nights and no more — though my love was so strong ! 
 
 Clouds burst on the summit, 
 And down its washed side 
 The avalanche thundered. 
 The hollows replied. 
 Then prayed I fair Skathi 
 To fly, the tenth morn, 
 With me to the sea-shore 
 Whereon I was born ! 
 Thus my stay was not long — 
 Nine nights and no more — though my love was so strong ! 
 
NIORTHR AND SKATHI. 233 
 
 SONG OF SKATHI. 
 
 Oh, Niorthr, my bridegroom, 
 Was comely and brave 
 As e'er for her lover 
 A maiden could crave ! 
 But he ill brooked the mountains, 
 And on the tenth day, 
 We sought the wild sea-shore 
 Whereon his home lay. 
 Yet my stay was not long — 
 Nine nights and no more — though my love was so strong ! 
 
 The halls of his father 
 Stand close by the wave ; 
 Around the tide lashes, 
 The ocean gales rave. 
 There how could I slumber ! 
 Allnio-ht the salt foam 
 
234: POEMS. 
 
 Dashed full at my casement — 
 I wept for my home — 
 And my stay was not long — 
 Nh;e nights and no more — though my love was so strong ! 
 
 At dawn scarce I slumbered 
 When lo, the wild mew 
 Came over the water 
 And waked me anew ! 
 I love not his shrieking, 
 I love not the roar 
 Of billows high breaking 
 Against the steep shore ! 
 So my stay was not long — 
 Nine nights and no more — though my love was so strong ! 
 
 Above the mad breakers, 
 Hoarse roaring so nigh, 
 I heard the poor sailor's 
 Last choking death cry. 
 
NIOETHR AND 6KATHI. 235 
 
 At dawn, the tenth morning, 
 I fled to the fell, 
 And Niorthr fast followed, 
 He loved me so well ; 
 Yet his stay was not long — 
 Nine nights and no more — though his love was so strong ! 
 
 Again he was restless — 
 Grew haggard — once more 
 I bound on my snow-shoes. 
 We flew to the shore ! 
 There soon my pale bridegroom 
 Refreshed him with sleep, 
 But I — I heard ever 
 The dirge of the deep ! 
 So my stay was not long — 
 Nine nights and no more — though my love was so strong ! 
 
A FABLE. 
 
 A WIDOW, poor and old and lonely, 
 Whose flock once numbered many a score, 
 Had now remaining to her only 
 One little lamb, and nothing more. 
 
 And every morning, forced to send it 
 To scanty pastures far away, 
 With prayers and tears did she commend it 
 To the good saint who named the day. 
 
 Nor so in vain ; each kindly patron — 
 George, Agnes, Nicholas, Genevieve — 
 Still mindful of the helpless matron, " 
 Brought home her lambkin safe at eve. 
 
A FABLE. 237 
 
 All-saints'-day dawns. With faith yet stronger, 
 On the whole hallowed choir the dame 
 Doth call — to one she prays no longer — 
 That day the wolf devoured the lamb ! 
 
THE MAID OF THE MEKEY HEAET 
 
 At the sunrise hour who seeks the bower 
 
 Of the Maid of the Merry Heart? 
 'Tis a soldier dight in armor bright, 
 
 And he comes to say — " We part." 
 
 With a pleading look her hand he took, 
 
 And his pale lips trembled long, 
 Ere the timid word was faintly heard — 
 
 " One kiss — it will make me strong." 
 
 But with blushes dyed, the maid replied, 
 
 " 'Tis the victor's meed I trow ! 
 When the laurels twine that brow of thine. 
 
 Then the boon will I bestow." 
 
THE MAID OF THE MEKEY HEAET. 239 
 
 " And if with the dead," the soldier said, 
 
 " On the battle-field I lie. 
 Forever I miss the costly kiss 
 
 That thou coldly dost deny ! " 
 
 Then a playful smile she tried, the while, 
 
 And a careless speech to frame — 
 " I will kiss the rose that freshly blows 
 
 O'er thy mound of deathless fame — 
 
 " I will kiss the moss — the holy Cross 
 
 Where it shines above thy rest — " 
 Ere the light words passed her tears fell fast, 
 
 And she sunk upon his breast. 
 
A LAY OF THE DANUBE 
 
 THE WISSEHRAD. 
 
 Pilgrim of the imperial Danube! pause 'neath yonder height, 
 Where a crumbling castle standeth draped in sunset light, 
 Like a hoary king, stout-hearted, who his throne doth fill, 
 Though with age he tremble, totter, clad in sliining purple 
 still ! 
 
 Climb those towers, and mark the river rolling calm and 
 wide, 
 
 Till the frowning mountain-giants dare defy his tide ! 
 
 Mark where he, through flinty columns, cuts a pathway free, — • 
 
 Dashes rightward, leftward, forward, throbbing, panting, to- 
 ward the sea ! 
 
A LAY OF THE DANUBE. 241 
 
 On those banks the angry nations gathered them of old, 
 Northern hordes and Southern legions joined their battles 
 
 bold, 
 Till the dark, cold waves were flowing red and warm Avith 
 
 blood — 
 Hideous Hun and haughty Roman, how they choked the 
 
 crimson flood ! 
 
 There, the sweet old rhymers tell us, Etzel held his court, 
 When he made, at Kriemhild's suing, feast for high disport, 
 Bidding fair her royal brothers from the distant Rhine — 
 Ah ! ill-fated Nibelungen, wherefore did ye not divine 
 
 That an injured, vengeful woman, — though her message fell 
 
 Loving as became a sister — could not mean you well ! 
 
 All in vain the pitying mermaids warned them hence 
 
 to fly- 
 There, betrayed, the homelorn heroes died as heroes still 
 
 should die ! 
 11 
 
242 POEMS. 
 
 'Neath the very towers thou scalest, now the spoil of fate. 
 Once a noble Magyar monarch kept his kingly state — 
 Great Corvinus, who Mohammed's flooding hosts could stem, 
 He by Rome's throned bishop counted worthiest Stephen's 
 diadem. 
 
 There below, within the valley, lay his gallant men. 
 Resting from their hard-earned triumphs o'er the Saracen ; 
 And a strange, wild tale is told us from that gray old time, 
 Ever still of love and sorrow — would'st thou learn it, hear 
 my rhyme ! 
 
 11. 
 
 THE MAGYAR MAID. 
 
 'Twas a day when Autumn hazes floated soft and still, 
 Lighter than Titania's vesture, over sky and hill ; 
 And the sun, flushed as a lover, left the earth so fair 
 With his golden smiles of promise filling all the rosy air. 
 
A LAY OF THE DANTTBE. 243 
 
 On the further bank a maiden stood, at that sweet hour, 
 Pourmg o'er the bleaching linen flist the needful shower. 
 Humbly born this duty proved her, yet if queen might wear 
 On her brow such regal beauty, crown were never wanting 
 there. 
 
 Now upon the turf she resteth,by the night-wind fanned, 
 Holding still the dripping pitcher with a careless hand, — 
 More like some immortal keeper of a fountain head, 
 Such as antique sculptures show us, than a simple mortal 
 maid. 
 
 Yet the fires of shifting passion burn in her daA eye, 
 
 And her lip now smiles, now trembles, all too humanly ; 
 
 Toward the camp her face still turneth through that change- 
 ful cheer, 
 
 And the anxious glance she sendeth now is longing, now is 
 fear. 
 
24A POEMS. 
 
 So she leaned till twilight faded and the moon's broad beam, 
 Slanting o'er the hills, with silver bridged the quivering 
 
 stream ; 
 Yet she leaned, all breathless w^atching, till a shadow ran, 
 Swifter than the winged arrow, full across that shining span. 
 
 Sudden o'er those marble features shot a passing glow, 
 Faint as Borealis-flashes cast on Northern snow. 
 Then a cold and stiffening tremor shook the lovely form. 
 And her head fell like the lily 'neath the chariot of the storm. 
 
 Noiseless as the downy-breasted swan might touch the 
 
 bank, 
 Came a lightly burthened shallop 'gainst the rushes dank ; 
 To her feet the maiden started as a soldier sprung 
 From the bark, in warrior mantle, and his arms about her 
 
 flung. 
 
 One bright smile of love all trusting on her lips there lay 
 Like a sunbeam, then grew colder till it died away. 
 
A LAY OF THE DANUBE. 245 
 
 And a cloud of doubt spread slowly o'er her forehead wide, 
 While beneath, from lids uplifted, shot the lightning-flash of 
 pride. 
 
 Night's thin curtain from the lover could not hide such 
 
 change ; 
 
 Low he questioned, " My beloved, wherefore art thou 
 strange ? 
 
 Hath false friend or envious rival whispered cause of fear 1 
 
 By Saint Stephen! but the traitor shall aby his rashness dear ! " 
 
 Silent, and as one who gathers strength for utmost need, 
 For a moment stood the maiden, till her drooping head 
 Rested meek upon his shoulder — then, with rapid gest, 
 Back she threw the shrouding mantle — and the monarch 
 stood confessed ! 
 
 Swift as ever slid the wild bird from the fowler's hand. 
 Through his clasping arms she glided, darted toward the 
 strand, 
 
24:6 POEMS. 
 
 And, ere he, abashed, bewildered, of her thought was ware, 
 Deep beneath the rolling river plunged her shame and her 
 despair ! 
 
 Headlong the remorseful lover follows down the wave, 
 Catches at the floating raiment, but he cannot save — 
 For the hero, conscience-stricken, weakens to a child, — 
 On the bank once more he standeth,pale and anguish- wild ! 
 
 Well, O king, thy heart might fail thee ! never from that 
 
 night, 
 Cold and mute a spectral-shadow ceased to haunt thy sight ! 
 Blood of Paynim, tears repentant — all in vain they flowed. 
 Still the sad, reproachful vision, unappeased, before thee 
 
 stood. 
 
 Even yet, the reapers tell us, may that maid be seen 
 
 When the tender autumn cometh, rolling mists between ; 
 
 From the parting flood she ris-es ere the stars are bright, 
 
 And her phantom-web outstretches far, to bleach beneath 
 their light. 
 
A LAY OF THE DANUBE. 247 
 
 Then a tall and helmed soldier draweth to her side, 
 
 And the trembling shade doth speed her 'neath the wave to 
 
 hide! 
 When the lingering years, they tell us, to a thousand run, 
 Only shall the lovers rest them from the long, long penance 
 
 done. 
 
DANIEL, THE CISTEECIAN. 
 
 In the gallery of the monastery of Osseg, one of the oldest religious 
 foundations in Bohemia, is a picture representing a Cistercian named 
 Daniel, whose cell is illuminated during his hours of nightly study, by 
 a light proceeding from his own hand. 
 
 Apart, on bleak Bohemian height, 
 The gray old monastery stood, 
 Encircled by a frowning wood, 
 And 'twas the dead of night. 
 
 The meek Cistercian in his cell 
 Lay watching through that hour of gloom ; 
 And black as vaulted, lampless tomb, 
 The darkness round him fell. 
 
DAiTIEL, THE CISTERCIAN. 2-i9 
 
 What shakes him ? not the storm abroad — 
 That moves in his calm soul no fears — 
 But, through its awful roar, he hears 
 The still small voice of God ! 
 
 " Rise ! son of man, while yet 'tis night ! " — 
 Such were the words the w^hisper spake — 
 " Rise straightway ! pen and parchment take, 
 And what I bid thee, write ! " 
 
 Even through that saintly heart there sweeps 
 A questioning thought, " O how obey ? 
 Thick is the darkness, and the day 
 Far down the orient sleeps ! " 
 
 " Rise ! and thy God shall give thee light ! " 
 
 Again the voice commanding said ; 
 
 Abashed, he started from his bed, 
 
 And sought wherewith to write. 
 11* 
 
250 POEMS. 
 
 Scarce had his trembling fingers raised 
 The tablets, felt for long in vain, 
 When lo ! the hand that touched the pen 
 With sudden brightness blazed ! 
 
 The glory filled the narrow cell, 
 And, ever as the monk would write, 
 Still from his hand the heavenly light 
 Full on the parchment fell ! 
 
 And thou — hath darkness quenched thy day ? 
 Is Fortune's tempest wild without ? 
 Within, the dreadful night of doubt 1 
 In what thou canst, obey ! 
 
 " Rise ! walk ! " he saith ; what though thy track 
 A horror of great darkness hides ! 
 First rise, obedient, as he bids, 
 And light thou shalt not lack ! 
 
THE FOUNTAIN OF THE TOOK. 
 
 AN ARAB LEGEND. 
 
 BisMiLLAH ! the Merciful ! Full of Compassion ! 
 All praise be to Allah, the Lord of Creation ! 
 
 Sidi Aomar — on whom be peace ! — 
 
 Was the servant of God, the most high ; 
 
 He was poor, yet he prayed not his goods might increase, 
 
 And his heart ever hated the lie. 
 
 Rising at dawn, in his tent's low door 
 
 With a hand ever open he stood, 
 
 Never turning his face from the old, or the poor. 
 
 Or the stranger invited of God. 
 
252 POEMS. 
 
 Eblis, the angel that fell, was wroth 
 
 With this man of a life without blame, 
 
 And he sought before Allah, with impious mouth, 
 
 Both his faith and his works to defame. 
 
 " Sidi Aomar, thy slave," he cried, 
 
 " Is a hypocrite full of disguise ! 
 
 He is poor, and because he hath naught, in his pride 
 
 Thus he feigneth him wealth to despise ! 
 
 *' Give him but riches till riches abound. 
 And his heart will soon wander from thee ! 
 The fair slave, the fleet steed, and the flying hound 
 He will seek, and do service to me ! " 
 
 God, the Companionless, answering, said, 
 " Thou art Eblis, the father of sin ! 
 Now thy witness of falsehood be on thine own head 
 • That the soul of my servant would'st win ! " 
 
THE FOUNTAIN OF THE POOK. 253 
 
 " Give me then leave, that eftsoons I show 
 
 This Aomar as weak as the rest ! " 
 
 " On the morrow, 'twixt dawn and the sunrising, go, 
 
 Put the strength of my saint to the test ! 
 
 " Yet ware thee well, for, a trembling slave, 
 Thou shalt serve him henceforth, if thou fail ! " 
 " Be it so," said the fiend, " and no better I crave, 
 If I know not the man I assail." 
 
 " Prayer," said Aomar, " is better than sleep ! " 
 As he rose ere his eye, by the light 
 That so doubtfully hovered afar on the steep. 
 Could discern the black thread from the white.* 
 
 Solemn and glad, to the scanty well 
 
 Of his tribe, like a prophet he goes — 
 
 Lo ! the pitcher, that there he hath bowed him to fill, 
 
 With the purest of silver o'erflows ! 
 
 * The morning prayer of the faithful Mohammedan should commence, 
 as soon as he can distinguish a white thread from a black one. 
 
254 • POEMS. 
 
 " Giver of life ! " said Aomar, " I sought 
 
 Not this silver, but water alone 
 
 For ablution, that pure, as the prophet hath taught, 
 
 I might send up my prayers to thy throne ! " 
 
 Casting the treasure among the sands, 
 
 Yet again the full crock doth he raise — 
 
 It is brimmed, not with water for worshipping hands, 
 
 But with gold of the ruddiest blaze ! 
 
 . " Hearer of prayer ! " said this mortal meek, 
 As he poured the red gold on the earth, 
 " Not the wealth of this world, but pure water I seek, 
 That for Thee hath a holier worth ! " 
 
 Yet once again from the well he drew, 
 And behold ! with a flash like the sun 
 At his rising, rich jewels, in gush ever new, 
 His rude pitcher of clay overrun. 
 
THE FOUNTAIN OF THE POOR. 255 
 
 Silent he gazed, and with troubled eye, 
 
 On the jets as they blinding] y played ; 
 
 Then to earth cast the crock with a penitent sigh, 
 
 And with forehead uplifted he said, 
 
 " How have I sinned, O thou Giver of good ! 
 That this day thou dost water deny 1 
 Must I ^vash then with sand like the pilgrim on road, 
 When he prays where no well-spring is nigh 1 " 
 
 Scarce had he spoke when a crystal tide 
 Bathed his brow with its fresh'ning spray ! 
 And the flow of that fountain shall never be dried ! 
 'Tis the ' Well of the Poor ' to this day ! 
 
 Amen ! be the life of the living contrition ! 
 The bed of the dying, the bed of submission ! 
 
THE WATEK OF EL ARBAm, 
 
 O'er wide Arabian deserts toilinor slow, 
 
 With heat and travel spent, 
 With fever parched, our zemzemieh * low, 
 
 Day after day we went. 
 
 Till now at Sinai's granite foot we lay, 
 
 The noontide sun beat sore ; 
 Then we arose and took our weary way 
 
 Through sand and flints once more. 
 
 Close was the rugged valley, dry and bare, 
 Walled in with adamant, ^ 
 
 Whose sides reverberant, with blinding glare, • 
 Hurled back each sun-dart slant. 
 
 * Name given to the leathern water-bottle used in the East. 
 
THE WATEE OF EL ARBAIN. 257 
 
 Yet onward still with trembling limbs we trod, 
 
 As erst the chosen flock ; 
 \nd saw where legend saith their prophet's rod 
 
 Had cleft the eternal rock. 
 
 But thence, alas ! no crystal streams now rolled 
 
 The thirsty soul to bless ; 
 Alone remained, of all those marvels old, 
 
 The fiery wilderness. 
 
 At length with blackened lip and bloodshot eye, 
 
 Scorched by the Simoom's breath, 
 I turned in anguish toward the brazen sky, 
 
 And prayed for drink — or death. 
 
 Then darkness gathered o'er my swimming sight. 
 
 Fast whirled the dizzy brain, 
 And the hot fever-throb, with fuller might, 
 
 Coursed through each liursting vein. 
 
258 POEMS. 
 
 Still to the fainting pilgrim words of cheer 
 
 The sons of Ishmael spake, 
 Told of a well of living water near, 
 
 That deathly thirst to slake ; 
 
 And pointed to a verdant garden-close 
 
 Within the vision's scope. 
 Where El Arbain's rude, shattered arches rose 
 
 On Horeb's blasted slope. 
 
 There, pillowed soon beneath that welcome shade, 
 
 I heard the fountain's drip, 
 Then felt the o'erflowing cup of coolness laid 
 
 Against my burning lip. 
 
 Oh! never juice, drawn from the choicest vine 
 
 Whose favored root is fed 
 At the pure sources of the boasted Rhine, 
 
 Or oldest river's head, — 
 
THE WATER OF EL AEBAlN. 259 
 
 Nay, not Valhalla's honey'd cup so rare, 
 
 By souls of heroes quaffed, 
 Not old OlymjDian nectar might compare 
 
 With that divinest draught ! 
 
 Cold as the ice-born flood from Northern steep, 
 
 Clearer than Indian wave, 
 Sweet as nepenthe drowning care in sleep, 
 
 A second life it gave. 
 
 O quickening fount! may thy bright currents roll 
 
 In everlasting flow, 
 And on the latest wanderer's fainting soul 
 
 A blessing like bestow ! 
 
 Know, too, O mortal, thou whose rougher path 
 
 Lies through a world of sin. 
 Without, the deadly arrows of its wrath, 
 
 Its fever-fire within, — 
 
•260 POEMS. 
 
 When sorrow, doubt, despair assail thy life, 
 
 Till thy crushed heart confess 
 It fain would choose, before such bitter strife, 
 
 The grave of Nothingness, — 
 
 A well-spring, whose high source is heaven, doth wait 
 
 Upon thy travail sore ; 
 There drink! and thou shalt rise as re-create, 
 
 Nor thirst for evermore ! 
 
AXEL. 
 
 FROM THE SWEDISH OF TEGNfiR. 
 
 ESAIAS Tegner, Bishop of Wexio, the greatest of Swedish poets, 
 was born in 1*782, and after a distinguished academical as well as pro- 
 fessional career, died in 1846. His most celebrated work is Frithiofs 
 Saga, which has been made accessible to the English-speaking public 
 by five or six translations, none of them, however, by any means satis- 
 factory. But his reputation was first established by several lyrical 
 pieces, by the Children of the Supper, so finely rendered by Long- 
 fellow, and by Axel, a version of which is here given in the metre of 
 the original. When the present translation was made, the author of 
 it was not aware that Axel had ever appeared in an English dress, but 
 she has recently seen parts of a version by Latham, and a complete 
 one by Bethune. The former of these would not have deterred her 
 from undertaking another, and she hopes that the one here offered 
 may not be found inferior even to the latter in closeness of conformity 
 to the spirit and letter of the original. 
 
 The olden time is dear to me, 
 
 The olden time of Charles's glory, 
 
 Gladsome as conscience pure, its story, 
 
 And spirited as victory. 
 
 In Northern lands, its reflex even 
 
262 POEMS. 
 
 Yet lingers on the verge of heaven, 
 
 And forms majestic come and go, 
 
 In yellow belt and tunic blue, 
 
 Where red the sky of evening burneth. 
 
 With awe mine eye upon you turneth, 
 
 Ye heroes of an age more bright, 
 
 With martial buff and broad-sword dight ! 
 
 One veteran from that age victorious, — 
 bi childhood's days I knew him well — 
 Erect he stood amongst us still, 
 A trophy ruined, but yet glorious. 
 With silver of a century shone 
 His locks, (to him none else was given,) 
 And on his brow deep scars were graven 
 Like runes on monumental stone. 
 True he was poor ; yet he but jested 
 With poverty, familiar grown ; 
 Frugal as in the field, alone 
 Within his woodland hut he rested. 
 
AXEL. ~ 263 
 
 Two treasures did the old man own, 
 
 'Gainst which earth's wealth as nothing weighed, 
 
 His Bible, and his trusty blade 
 
 With Charles the Twelfth writ fair thereon. 
 
 The great king's deeds, now found recited, 
 
 "Where countless pens have them indited, 
 
 (For wide that eagle flew around,) 
 
 Stood in his memory recorded, 
 
 Eanged like the urns of warriors hoarded 
 
 Within a grassy funeral mound. 
 
 When he some great exploit was showing 
 
 Of young King Charles, his ' blue boys ' bold. 
 
 How high he held his forehead old, 
 
 With what a fire his eye was glowing ! 
 
 And from his lips each word that fell 
 
 Kung like the clash of smiting steel. 
 
 Ear into night he often sat 
 
 Talking of former days so famed. 
 
 And never, when King Charles was named, 
 
 Would fail to lift his well-worn hat, 
 
264 POEMS. 
 
 Wondering I stood beside his knee, 
 (For scarcely higher reached my head,) 
 And pictures of those heroes dead 
 From boyhood still remain to me, 
 And tales now half-forgotten lie 
 Dimly within my memory, 
 As 'neath the snow sleeps in its seed 
 The lily, when its flower is fled. 
 
 Peace to his ashes ! they repose 
 Long since within the quiet earth. 
 The saga his ; take it, North, 
 And weep with me o'er Axel's woes ! 
 But 'gainst the old man's words of flame 
 My simple rhymes must needs be tame. 
 
 The mighty monarch lay at Bender ; 
 His wasted lands had no defender, 
 Disgraced his name, so glorious late, 
 And as a wounded champion yet 
 
AXEL. 265 
 
 Fights, though on bended knee, and feeling 
 
 The chill of death upon him stealing, 
 
 So fought each man behind his shield, 
 
 Desperate, but scorning still to yield ; 
 
 For hope of rescue there was none 
 
 In any breast save his alone. 
 
 The king, though hurricanes were shaking 
 
 The leaves of fate, though earth seemed quaking, 
 
 Stood calm as arch that hath defied 
 
 The bursting bomb 'mid ruins wide. 
 
 Or rock that breasts the raging wave, 
 
 Or Fortitude beside a grave. 
 
 One evening he to Axel said, 
 
 " Take thou this letter ! " — and he laid 
 
 The missive in his hand — " now ride 
 
 Towards Sweden straight, this even-tide. 
 
 See that thou rest not, day or night, 
 
 Till our old mountains greet thy sight ; 
 12 
 
266 POEMS. 
 
 Before my council there thou'lt lay 
 The letter — and God speed thy way ! " 
 
 Young Axel loves to ride amain ! 
 The letter in his belt with joy 
 He hides. His sire, at Holofzin, 
 Fell fighting by his king ; the boy — 
 Thenceforth the camp's adopted child — 
 Grew up 'mid wars and tumults wild. 
 'Twas a fair form, such as our North 
 Doth sometimes even yet bring forth, 
 Fresh as a rose, but tall and slim 
 As Sweden's firs in youthful prime. 
 His arched brow was high and clear 
 As heaven's vault when no cloud is there, 
 And every feature bore impress 
 Of frankness and of earnestness. 
 His eye transparent seemed as given 
 To look with hope and confidence 
 Up to the God of day in Heaven, 
 
AXEL. 26Y 
 
 Yet without fear to turn their glance 
 Downward to him, who, shorn of light, 
 Dwells 'neath the shadow of the night. — 
 
 Tn the king's guard 'twas his to hold 
 
 A place among his soul's own kin ; 
 
 A little band, whose number told 
 
 Seven, like the stars of Charles's Wain, 
 
 Or, like the Muses, nine at most, 
 
 All strictly chosen from the host ; 
 
 By fire and sword proved well and long, 
 
 A troop of Christian vikings strong, 
 
 Not unlike those who whilom clave 
 
 With dragon-ships the dark-blue wave. 
 
 Within no bed might they repose ; 
 
 On the hard earth their cloaks they spread, 
 
 And there, mid storms and drifting snows, 
 
 Slept calmly as on flowery mead. 
 
 A horse-shoe with the naked hand 
 
 They twisted. None e'er saw them stand 
 
268 POEMS. 
 
 Round chimney fires ; they rather chose 
 The warmth of heated ball that glows 
 lied as the day-star, when he sets 
 In blood on Northern winter nights. 
 It was their law, that on the field 
 To less than seven one might not yield, 
 E'en in retreat must face the foe, 
 A flying back they might not show. 
 Lastly, this law — and harder yet, 
 Perhaps, than all the rest beside — 
 None on a maid his heart might set, 
 Till Charles himself should take a bride. 
 Though eyes of heavenly blue might shine, 
 Or rosy lips wear smiles divine. 
 However snowy breasts might heave, 
 Like swans rocked on the limpid wave, 
 Nor eye nor heart the charm must feel, 
 For each was married lo his steel. 
 
 Young Axel saddled glad his steed, 
 
AXEL. 
 
 And rode both day and night with speed, 
 Till he on Ukraine's border stood — 
 A flash of steel within the wood ! 
 Sabres and lances quick iipspring, 
 And round him close a glittering ring. 
 " Dispatches thou dost bear from Bender ; 
 Dismount, and to my hand surrender 
 Thy charge, — or die ! " His ready blade 
 A plain, a Swedish answer made ; 
 Grown sudden meek, the speaker bowed 
 To earth, and weltered in his blood. 
 With back against an oak-tree stayed, 
 His desperate game the hero played. 
 At every whiz of his good sword 
 A knee was bowed, and life-blood poured. 
 Nobly he kept the oath they made — 
 One against seven — why, that were naught ! 
 One against twenty, flew his blade. 
 He fought as once Rolf Krake fought, 
 Striving, since hope of life was none. 
 
 269 
 
270 POEMS. 
 
 For company in death alone ; 
 
 And gashes purple-lipped declare 
 
 His fate inevitably near ; 
 
 The blood around his heart grows chill, 
 
 His hand, though glued to sword-hilt still, 
 
 Is numbed ; thick shadows veil his sight. 
 
 And faint he sinks to darkest night. 
 
 Halloo ! the woods are echoing round ! 
 And falcon bold, and trusty hound 
 Pursue their game. Behold ! a troop 
 Of flying huntsmen gallops up, 
 And, dashing foremost of the train, 
 On dappled steed, in habit green, 
 With rosy cheeks, fair as the sun, 
 Rides, whirlwind like, an amazon. 
 The robber-band affrighted fled. 
 Her courser started at the dead ; 
 Then with a bound she leaped to earth — 
 And there he lay, stretched like an oak 
 
AXEL. 271 
 
 Among the brushwood, by the stroke 
 
 Of a fierce tempest from the north. 
 
 How fair he seemed, though bathed hi blood ! 
 
 And leaning over him now stood, 
 
 MxVRiA, as once Dian fair 
 
 Descending from her heavenly sphere, 
 
 On Latmos, from the chase withdrawn, 
 
 Stood over her Endymion. 
 
 The sleeper that enchanted her 
 
 Than this could not be lovelier. 
 
 Within his pierced and mangled breast 
 
 A spark of life yet feebly glows. 
 
 And straight her followers frame in haste 
 
 A litter of the greenwood boughs ; 
 
 And placing him thereon with care, 
 
 They bear him to her dwelling near. 
 
 The maiden sat beside his bed. 
 With pity filled and anxious dread, 
 And on those features pale she cast 
 
272 POEMS. 
 
 A look whose worth a realm surpassed ; 
 She sat beside him like a rose, 
 III fair but now fast wasting Greece, 
 Wild and luxuriant that grows 
 Beside a fallen Hercules. 
 At length from deathly swoon he wakes. 
 Looks round amazed, and hurried speaks. 
 Alas ! his eyes, but late so mild, 
 ITave suddenly grown fixed and wild. 
 " Where am I ? Girl, what wouldst thou have 1 
 No woman's eye may rest on me, 
 No tears of thine my wounds may lave ! 
 To Charles I've sworn it solemnly. 
 My father walks the Milky Way ! 
 He's wroth ! that oath he heard me say ! 
 And yet how fair to mortal sense 
 The enchantress ! Demon ! get thee hence ! 
 Where is my belt ? My letter and — 
 'Twas written by the king's own hand ! 
 My father's sword is good ! It bites 
 
AXEL. 273 
 
 Right greedily the Muscovites 
 
 What joy to strike, and see them fall ! 
 
 Oh, that King Charles had witnessed all ! 
 
 They fell like grain before the knife ! 
 
 I half seemed wounded in the strife. — 
 
 The letter I to Stockholm bear. 
 
 My honor's pledged to take it there. 
 
 Dear are the moments ! Up ! to horse ! "— 
 
 Such, wild with fever, his discourse ; 
 
 And then the hero deathly j)ale 
 
 Back on his quiet pillow fell. 
 
 Then death contended long with life 
 Over the youth in doubtful strife. 
 Life conquered ; slow the peril passed. 
 And Axel now could view, at last, 
 With conscious eye, though weak and dim. 
 The angel that still watched by him, — 
 Not one of those idyllic maids. 
 Who sighing walk in verdant shades, 
 
274: POEMS. 
 
 A counterfeit of pining thought, 
 With tresses yellow as the light, 
 Cheeks pale as violet of the night, 
 And eyes like the forget-me-not. 
 Eastern her blood ; her black locks lie, 
 Like midnight round a bed of roses, 
 Where on her forehead bold and high 
 Glad courage — the sole true — reposes ; 
 Like victory graven on the slfield 
 That warrior-maiden bears in field. 
 Her hue fresh as in painters' dreams 
 Aurora crowned witli radiant beams ; 
 In form she seemed an Oread, 
 And dancing was her step and glad. 
 And high her swelling bosom heaves 
 With youth and health ; together weaves 
 The lily with the rose her frame ; 
 Her soul a j)iu-e ethereal flame, 
 A southern summer-heaven complete 
 With sun and flowery odors sweet. 
 
AXEL. 275 
 
 And in her eye's dark glance there strove 
 A heavenly and an earthly light, 
 Now flashing like the bird of Jove 
 Proudly from the empyrean height, 
 Now mild as Aphrodite's doves 
 Drawing the chariot of the Loves. 
 
 O, Axel ! of thy wounds the smart 
 Soon passes, only scars remain ; 
 "Without, thy breast is cured of pain ; 
 But ah ! how fares it with thy heart ? 
 Look not so loving on the hand 
 That binds thy wounds with healing band — 
 The hand that white as marble shows — 
 In thine it never may repose ! 
 It bears more peril to thy peace 
 Than those hard hands of Osmanlis, 
 That late at Bender thou hast seen 
 With sabre armed and carabine. 
 Those fresh red lips, that only ope 
 
2Y6 POEMS. 
 
 To breathe of comfort and of hope, 
 111 tones as from tlie spirit-world — 
 'Twere better thou shouldst hear again 
 On Pultowa's ensanguined plain 
 The thunderbolts Czar Peter hurled ! 
 When, trembling and with pallid mien, 
 Thou goest to breathe the summer balm, 
 On thine own sword, O Axel ! lean, 
 And not upon that rounded arm. 
 Which seems as 'twere by Cupid made 
 To be the pillow for his head. 
 
 Wonder of heaven and earth ! O, Love ! 
 Thou breath from blissful realms above ! 
 Spark of Divinity, that cheers 
 Our darkness in this vale of tears ! 
 In Nature's breast the beating heart, 
 Comfort of Gods and men thou art ! 
 Drop seeketh drop in ocean's bed. 
 And all the stars above us tread, 
 
AXEL. 277 
 
 Whirling from pole to 2:>ole, each one 
 A bridal dance around its sim. 
 Still art thou to the human soul 
 A reflex, faint memorial, 
 Of brighter, better days, when, even 
 Yet but a child, she dwelt in heaven — 
 That azure hall, whose roof is set 
 With many a starry crown of light. 
 Where nightly she, with joy o'erblest, 
 Sank in her father's arms to rest. 
 Rich as the gifts of fancy are, 
 Her only language then was prayer. 
 And every fair and winged child 
 Of heaven on her a brother smiled. 
 She fell to earth ! since that, not even 
 Her love is pure ; yet doth she trace, 
 With joy, in the beloved's face. 
 Some look of former friends in heaven 
 And song of poet or of spring 
 Doth to her ear their lost tones bring. 
 
278 POEMS. 
 
 Oh, happy is the exile then, 
 As wandering Swiss, who hears again 
 Some note of home, that doth restore 
 Boyhood and Alpine heights once more ! 
 
 'Twas evening ! Twilight wrapped in gold 
 Lay dreaming on her western bed, . 
 
 And, mute as Egypt's priests of old. 
 The stars their solemn marches led. 
 And earth below that sky so flxir 
 Stood lilvc a bride, in whoso dark hair 
 Rich gems are flashing, blush and smile 
 Playing beneath her veil the while. 
 Tired with the pleasures of the day, 
 In smiling sleep the Naiad lay. 
 And tranquil Evening sat at rest, 
 A red rose shining on her breast. 
 The little Cupids, that had lain 
 Bound by the sunshine, free again, 
 Now gaily on the moonbeams ride. 
 
AXEL. 279 
 
 With bow and quiver at their side, 
 
 Where Spring, through greenwood arches, Late 
 
 !Made entry in triumphal state. 
 
 Forth from the oak the nightingale 
 
 Strikes out her song that fills the vale — 
 
 SojEl, innocent, and pure that strain, 
 
 As some sweet lyric of Franzen. 
 
 In all, it seemed as Nature said, 
 
 * Behold, the hour for tryst is made ! ' 
 
 All life, yet silence so complete, 
 
 Thou mightst have heard her great heart beat. — 
 
 Then, conscious of the happy charm, 
 The youthful pair walked arm in arm. 
 As plighted lovers rings, so these 
 Exchanged their childhood's memories. 
 He talked of bright days when he dwelt 
 'Neath the red roof maternal, built 
 Of the hewn fir-tree, and that rose 
 Among the pines mid Northern snows ; 
 
280 POEMS. 
 
 Of the dear land where he was bred ; 
 Brothers and sisters long since dead. 
 He told, as well, how, many a time, 
 The old, the deep heroic rhyme, 
 And saga-volume parchment- bound, 
 Had wakened longings so profound 
 For great exploit. In dreams of night 
 He seemed a warrior armed for fight, 
 And mounted on the tall steed Grane, 
 Like mythic Sigurd Fafnisbane, 
 He rode through magic fire-wall straight 
 To sage Brynhilda's castle gate, 
 That flaming in the moonlight stood, 
 Encircled by a laurel wood. 
 The house grew close, his breath not free, 
 Then to the forest would he flee, 
 And climbing, with a boy's delight, 
 The fir-top where the eagles light. 
 Would sit, rocked by the northern blast, 
 Till cheek and heart were cooled at last. 
 
AXEL. 281 
 
 What joy to mount the swift cloud-car 
 
 That rolls above him, and afar 
 
 Be borne beyond the narrow seas 
 
 Out to a fairer world than this, 
 
 Where Victory beckons, Glory stands, 
 
 Chaplets for heroes in her hands, 
 
 And where King Charles, (whom scarce he owns 
 
 Seven years his senior), plucketh crowns 
 
 With his good sword, and instantly — 
 
 how divine ! — gives them away ! 
 
 " At fifteen, could my mother's fears 
 No longer keep me ; bathed in tears 
 
 1 fell upon her bosom ; then 
 
 Toward Poland turned my steps, since when, 
 
 As watch-fire steady, my life's flame 
 
 Hath burned amid the battle-game. 
 
 Yet never parent bird I see 
 
 Feeding its young caressingly, 
 
 Never upon a fair child look 
 
 Playing with flowers beside the brook, 
 
282 POEMS. 
 
 But, sudden, war's attractions cease, 
 And in my soul sweet thoughts of Peace 
 Arise, with groves and golden grain, 
 And laughing children in her train ; 
 And by a quiet cottage door, 
 The rosy twilight glowing o'er 
 Her face, a maiden stands, the same 
 That oft has blessed my boyhood's dream. 
 Of late, these images of rest 
 My soul unceasing have possessed. 
 I close my eyelids ; they appear 
 Only more life-like and more clear. 
 And she who crowneth every scene — 
 Maria ! thou art still that queen ! " 
 
 • ^ Confused and blushing said the maid, 
 " Happy the lot of man indeed ! 
 Strong man ! no fetter beareth he, 
 E'en from his childhood, is he free. 
 And danger's charms, and glory's crown, 
 
AXEL. 283 
 
 And heaven and earth are all his own. 
 But woman — hers a different lot ! 
 ]\Ian's mere appendage to the last ; 
 A bandage for his wounds ; forgot 
 Soon as the fretting pain is past ! 
 She is the offering, he the fire 
 That glorious heavenward doth aspire !- 
 My sire in Peter's wars did fall, 
 My mother's face I scarce recall. 
 The desert's daughter grew up wild 
 Within these walls, an idol child 
 Honored by slaves, who meek endure 
 Each vain caprice of tyrant power. 
 A noble spirit feels its shame, 
 Dwelling with souls so basely tame ! 
 Hast ever on our boundless plain 
 Seen the wild steed of noble strain 1 
 Fiery as hero, fleet as hind, 
 He scorns to own a master's care ; 
 With ears erect, turned to the wind, 
 
284 POEMS. 
 
 He stands and scents the danger near, 
 Then scouring in a whirlwind cloud 
 Of dust, o'er the wide steppe he flies, 
 Fights his own fights with hoof unshod, 
 Untamed enjoys, untamed he dies ! 
 ' Sons of the wilderness so free, 
 How fair, how blest, your life must be ! ' 
 I cried, and bade them check their speed, 
 "Whene'er my neighing Tatar steed, 
 A bitted slave, e'en to a word 
 Obedient, bore me to the herd ; 
 But the troop heeded not my cry, 
 And, scornful snorting, thundered by. 
 Nor could my spirit free as air 
 The castle's endless sameness bear ; 
 With zeal I learned the sylvan war, 
 'Gainst bird and beast of prey went forth. 
 And oft scarce saved from paw of bear 
 A life that only then had worth. 
 But ah ! we bend not Nature's will ; 
 
AXEL. 285 
 
 In lowly hut, or on the throne, 
 
 A seamstress or an amazon, 
 
 The woman is the woman still ; 
 
 A vine that droops if naught sustain, 
 
 A being of its half forlorn, 
 
 To w^hom all joys unshared are vain, 
 
 Whose every pleasure is twin-born ! 
 This quick pulsation that is fraught 
 
 With suffering, yet a joy to feel — 
 This longing for I know not what, 
 So painful and so gladsome still — 
 It hath no aim, it hath no bound ; 
 As if on wings, I leave the ground 
 And soar to Heaven, whose starry dome 
 Of blest immortals is the home, 
 Then downward to the earth I fall, 
 To you, dear forms ! familiar all ; 
 Ye trees that Avith me have grown up. 
 Thou hillock with thy flowery top. 
 Thou brook with all thy songs of love — 
 
286 POEMS. 
 
 • 
 
 I've seen, I've heard you, all these years, 
 
 But as a statue sees and hears. 
 
 Now first, now first, my heart ye move ! 
 
 I feel my soul, less selfish grown, 
 
 Is of a purer, higher tone 
 
 Since first," — but here a sudden red 
 
 The maiden's features overspread ; 
 
 She paused ; a smothered sigh confessed 
 
 The thought her words but half expressed. 
 
 His song renews the nightingale, 
 
 While lists the moon, 'neath cloudy veil ; 
 
 And in a long unending kiss 
 
 As warm as life, nor faithful less 
 
 Than the still grave, their souls, set free, 
 
 Melted in one blest harmony ! 
 
 They kissed as on the altar-stone 
 
 Two flames kiss and become but one. 
 
 Which, glowing with a stronger light, 
 
 Soars loftier in its heavenward flight. 
 
AXEL. 287 
 
 For them, gone was this world of ill, 
 And Time in mid career stood still. 
 Of this poor mortal life each hour 
 Is bounded, meted by time's power. 
 Love's kiss and death's alone may be 
 Named children of eternity. 
 The happy pair ! in fire earth's frame 
 Might roll, they would not see the flame ; 
 The firmament of heaven might rock 
 And fall, they would not hear the shock ! 
 The Genius of the North and South, 
 Thus had they stood with mouth to mouth, 
 And passed, unconscious, in that kiss, 
 From earthly into heavenly bliss ! 
 
 From that elysian flight, earthward 
 Came Axel first. " Now by my sword. 
 By the pure honor of the North, 
 And by yon stars that there stand forth 
 Like white-robed bridemaids shining down, 
 
288 POEMS. 
 
 For earth and heaven thou art mine own ! 
 Far, far removed from war, what bliss. 
 Within some friendly vale, where peace 
 Sheltered by mountains dwelleth free, 
 Could I but live and die with thee ! 
 But ah ! an oath my soul doth chain ! 
 With pallid cheek and glance of ire, 
 It lays an icy hand between 
 Our hearts that burn with holy fire. 
 But fear not ! all shall yet be well ! 
 Redeemed, but never broken, shall 
 Mine oath be ! Now I must away ! 
 When to her feast of flowers fair May 
 Next bids us, I am here again 
 To fetch my bride, my wife ! — till then, 
 Sweet maid, than life more dear to me, 
 Half of my soul ! farewell to thee ! " 
 
 He spoke, — and turning at the word, 
 Reclasped his belt, resumed his sword, 
 
AXEL. 289 
 
 And straight set forth, his journey through 
 
 The Czar's wide empire to pursue. 
 
 Concealed within the woods hj day, 
 
 By night he held his rapid way 
 
 Towards heaven's firm key-stone, shining forth 
 
 The changeless pole-star of our North. 
 
 And gentle Charles's Wain, that yet 
 
 In ocean s waves hatn never set, 
 
 That wain with shafts all silver bright. 
 
 And wheels that blaze with golden light. 
 
 And now, a thousand perils past. 
 
 Through hostile troops he comes at last 
 
 To Sweden's capital, that hears. 
 
 With wonder, what her hero dares, 
 
 And to the councillors the king's 
 
 Letter and greeting faithful brings. 
 
 Meanwhile, within her lonely halls 
 
 On Axel's name Maria calls ; 
 
 She sighs it through the woods profound, 
 13 
 
290 POEMS. 
 
 Teaches the hills and vales its sound. 
 
 " What oath can hold him in its band ? 
 
 Some maiden of his native land 1 
 
 Some former love 1 can this be true ? 
 
 My heart protests there ne'er are two ! 
 
 Thou snow-veiled maiden of the North, 
 
 Or one of us must die, or both ! 
 
 The Southern fire thou dost not know ! 
 
 Far as thy frozen lakes may lie 
 
 Among thy mountains clad in snow. 
 
 I'll seek thee ! thou shalt surely die ! 
 
 But stay ! — a child he left the North, 
 
 Nor since, the country of his birth 
 
 Hath §een, and from the camp's fierce cry 
 
 Love, timid Love, is wont to fly. 
 
 No stain on brow that's arched like thine ! 
 
 There only truth and honor shine. 
 
 In thy pure glance I've read the whole, 
 
 The deepest secret of thy soul, 
 
 As the keen eye of day looks through 
 
AXEL. 291 
 
 The fount's clear depths of silvery blue. 
 
 Why fleest thou then 1 And doth tlmt vow 
 
 Bind thee my heart to break ? And how — 
 
 But ah ! in space my murmurs die ! 
 
 A widow among graves I sigh, 
 
 A dove, that heaven and earth doth fill 
 
 With her complaints unanswered still ! 
 
 Ah ! forests sigh and billows flow 
 
 Between us, and he hears me not. 
 
 What if I follow ! But, oh no ! 
 
 That for a woman ill were thought. 
 
 A woman ! Who shall know ? I'll wear 
 
 A sword, and lo ! the man is there ! 
 
 With peril have I often played, 
 
 For life and death a die-cast made ; 
 
 As grown to courser, bold I ride, 
 
 My bullet ne'er hath' swerved aside. 
 
 Some angel prompteth this design — 
 
 Now Axel, Axel ! thou art mine ! 
 
 I'll seek thee in the distant North, 
 
292 POEMS. 
 
 I'll seek thee through the wide, wide earth, 
 From shore to shore, from dell to dell, 
 And force thee that same oath to tell ! 
 Bear me, O War ! upon thy wing, 
 Till me to Axel's land thou bring ! " 
 
 Thus spoke the maid ; so said, so done ! 
 Resolve and action are but one 
 With woman. Lo ! the change complete ! 
 Tlie helmet hides her locks of jet, 
 Strong buff her bosom's wealth enfolds, 
 Powder and ball her knapsack holds. 
 And o'er her shoulders white and fine, 
 Death's engine hangs, a carabine. 
 From girdle like fair Dian's zone, 
 Pendent a flashing sabre shone, 
 And round her lips she drew a shade, 
 Of downy beard that semblance made, 
 And much it seemed as one should choose 
 With dusky crape to wreathe a rose. 
 
AXEL. 293 
 
 With belt and sword liow like she grew 
 
 To Cupid turned a hero too, 
 
 As blazoned on the glittering shield 
 
 The son of Clinias bore in field ! 
 
 " Home of my fathers, fare thee well ! 
 
 I trust, in love and peace I may 
 
 Return, once more in thee to dwell ; 
 
 But now I can no longer stay. 
 
 Fold me within thy veil, O Night ! 
 
 And to my Axel aid my flight ! " — 
 
 Already on a border won 
 
 Under the eyelid of the North 
 
 Grown drowsy, stood Czar Peter's town. 
 
 There mortgaged crowns from the whole earth 
 
 Are gathered now ; then in its creek 
 
 Still small it lay, but dragon-like. 
 
 It shows the serpent, though so young ; 
 
 As in the sun-warmed sand he coils, 
 
 He hisses with his forked tongue, 
 
294: POEMS. 
 
 Within his fangs the venom boils. 
 'Gainst Sweden, armed with fire and sword 
 There lay a squadron ; thitherward 
 Maria bent her course, and where 
 Swords glance and banners flout the air, 
 She seeks a place on board the fleet 
 That soon the Swedish hosts shall meet. 
 The leader of that savage horde 
 Eyed her full sharply, with the word, 
 " More dangerous, methinks, young swain ! 
 Thou'lt prove to Northern maids than men. 
 We'll send thee ! 'tis not to be feared 
 That they will pluck thee by the beard ! 
 But war's stern art thou'lt learn from them 
 Right thoroughly. 'Tis no child's game ; 
 Tor life and death the venture's tried, 
 God and Saint Nicholas decide ! " 
 
 The sails fill fast, the keels ride free 
 In foam upon the Baltic sea ; 
 
AXEL. 295 
 
 Soon in the sunset's glowing light 
 The Swedish mountains rise to sight , 
 Defying time and tide they stand, 
 A giant beacon nature-planned. 
 They landed then at Sotaskar — 
 A name to faithful hearts most dear — 
 There for the last time Hjalmar parted 
 With Ingeborg, there broken-hearted 
 Died the fair maid, when Odin's call 
 Summoned her hero to his hall. 
 Around that cliff her soul doth hover 
 Sorrowing e'en yet for her lost lover. 
 Leueadia of the North ! thy fame 
 Once great in saga, now forgot ! 
 But Hjalmar's death-song keeps thy name, 
 And poet-hearts forsake thee not ! 
 
 From town to town the flames blaze hi^h. 
 The children shriek, the women fly. 
 For Russian w^arfare well they know ; 
 
296 POEMS. 
 
 And all the neighboring country through, 
 Both night and day the church-bells s\Ying — 
 But naught thy dead to life can bring, 
 Thou land bereaved ! Thy champions bold, 
 Thy towers of strength, the gi\ave doth hold ! 
 But Sweden's danger now calls fn-th 
 Old men and boys to save their North, 
 With swords that served Gustavus, when 
 Blood on Germania's soil was spilt. 
 And halberds that had crossed the Belt, 
 Now blunt, but used to victory then ; 
 And many a l^lunderbuss appears 
 Whose rusty matchlock proves its years. 
 'Twas all that Sweden still possessed — 
 A little troop, and, for the rest, 
 111 armed, but without doubt or fear 
 Against the invader they draw near. 
 But 'twas no fight of man to man ! 
 Eound him a cloud the f^eman threw, 
 And from the cliff courage in vain 
 
AXEL. 297 
 
 Would seek to scale, his lightnings flew, 
 And, unchastised. Death's tireless hand 
 Mowed the thin ranks of that small band. 
 
 As comes the avenging god of war 
 
 With belt and hammer, angry TnoR, 
 
 So Axel to the field, where dread 
 
 And flight are reigning, hurrieth, 
 
 A succoring angel sent in need ! 
 
 His breast is steel, his arm is death, 
 
 The Swedes he rallies ; left and right 
 
 He flies upon his courser white. 
 
 " Stand, friends ! close up your ranks anew ! 
 
 From Charles, our king, I come to you, 
 
 From his own lips a greeting bring, 
 
 Our watchword still, God and the King ! " 
 
 " God and King Charles ! " echoes through all 
 
 Their lines ; they heed the hero's call. 
 
 The height whence pours that shower of death 
 
 Is stormed and taken in a breath, 
 13 
 
298 POEMS. 
 
 Silenced the cannon's roar ; like grain 
 Weapons and corpses strew the plain, 
 And swords smite blindly, but right true, 
 The necks of that wild flying crew, 
 And, panic-struck, the robber band, 
 SlijDping their cables, leave the strand. 
 
 Sleeping, like glutted beast of prey, 
 Upon the field grim Slaughter lay. 
 From heaven's pavilion shone the moon 
 Upon that desolation down. 
 Along the shore by night o'erspread. 
 Walked Axel sighing 'mong the dead. 
 In couples lying, how they clasp 
 Each other ! deathly strong that grasp ! 
 A true embrace would'st thou behold, 
 Look not on lovers, who enfold 
 Each other smiling ; go 
 Forth rather to the battle ! see 
 How to his heart foe presseth foe, 
 
AXEL. 299 
 
 In the last dying agony ! 
 " Transports of love and pleasure pass 
 Swiftly as doth spring's fleeting breath ; 
 But hate and pain and woe, alas ! 
 Are faithful even unto death." 
 Thus sighing, sudden doth ho shrink 
 To hear a voice complaining cry, 
 " I thirst, O Axel ! give me drink ! 
 Receive my farewell ere I die ! " 
 Those tones familiar ! at the sound. 
 He clears the steep height with a bound. 
 
 Lo ! leaning 'gainst the rock, there stood 
 
 A stranger, wounded, bathed in blood. 
 
 Forth from a cloud the moon's bright glance 
 
 Fell on that pallid countenance ; 
 
 With a wild shriek of horror, he 
 
 Cries shudderingly, " God ! 'tis she ! " 
 'Twas she indeed ! Her wounds' deep smart 
 
 Hiding, her whisper faintly fell ; 
 
 '•' Oh, welcome, Axel ! — No, tarewell ! 
 
300 POEMS. 
 
 Death's chills are gathering round my heart ! 
 Oh ! ask not what hath brought me here ! 
 'Tis love alone hath made me err ! 
 When shades of endless night come o'er us, 
 And the tomb's gate stands close before us, 
 How different then this life appears ! 
 How small its sorrows and its cares ! 
 Love only, blameless, pure like ours, 
 Goes with us to the heavenly bowers. 
 Thine oath, that I have sought to know, 
 To me the shining stars will show ; 
 There it stands written ; I shall see, 
 As clear as they, thy truth to me. — 
 I know I have done thoughtlessly, 
 I know thou sorrowest sore for me ! 
 Forgive me — for love's sake thou must ! — 
 Each tear thou sheddest o'er my dust. 
 Parent or brother I had none. 
 But thou to me wert all in one; 
 Thou wert my all ! — O Axel swear, 
 
AXEL. 301 
 
 Tliat even in death thou hold'st me dear !- 
 Thou swearest ! — Wherefore murmur 1 1 
 For life, of all her poesy 
 The fairest, best, hath dealt to me ; 
 Thy bride ! — and on thy heart to die ! 
 And shall not now my dust repose 
 On soil thou'st saved from its foes ? 
 Axel, behold ! over the moon 
 A cloud is passing ; when 'tis flown, 
 Then I depart ; my soul shall stand 
 Transfigured on the heavenly land 
 Praying for thee, and from the skies 
 Watch o'er thee with immortal eyes. 
 Plant by my grave a southern rose, 
 And when it dies 'neath winter snows — 
 Child of the sun — think of thy bride, 
 Who lieth sleeping by its side. 
 Brief was her bloom ! — But, Axel, see ! 
 The cloud is gone, my spirit free ! 
 
302 POEMS. 
 
 Farewell, farewell ! " faintly she sighs, 
 Convulsive grasps his hand — and dies. 
 
 Forth from the Stygian flood, not Death, 
 But his young brother, Madness, rose. 
 His face is pale, a poppy wreath 
 Amid his locks dishevelled shows ; 
 By turns he gazes on the ground. 
 By turns looks upward to the skies ; 
 His mouth convulsed a smile plays round, 
 And tears bedim his half-shut eyes. 
 Poor Axel's head with wand of power 
 He touched, and ever from that hour 
 The youth with ceaseless step doth walk 
 Around the grave, as sagas say 
 In olden time the dead would stalk 
 Round where their buried treasures lay. 
 And day and night that shore so lone 
 Echoes his sad and touching moan. 
 
AXEL. 303 
 
 " Hush, hush ! thou blue and billowy sea, 
 Agamst the shore, oh, beat not so ! 
 For in my dreams thou troublest me ; 
 I do not love to hear thy flow. 
 Thy foaming waves with blood are red ; 
 And Death upon my shore thou'st led. 
 But late, a youth here bleeding lay, 
 I made his grave with roses gay ; 
 
 For he was like 1 well know whom ! 
 
 I'll bring her home, when spring doth bloom. 
 
 They tell me that my bride doth rest 
 
 In earth, — that o'er her faithful breast 
 
 The green sod grows ; — Oh, no ! herself 
 
 Last night upon that rocky shelf 
 
 I saw, pale as they paint the dead. 
 
 But that was from the moonbeam's light. — 
 
 O'er lip and cheek a chillness spread, 
 
 'Twas from the cold wind of the night. — 
 
 I prayed the lovely shape to stay ; 
 
 She laid her finger on my brow 
 
SO-i POEMS. 
 
 So dark and heavy ; then it grew 
 
 As light and joyous as the day. 
 
 How shone they in the far, far East, 
 
 Those days departed ! Oh, how blest 
 
 Were they, how heavenly and how lair ! 
 
 How happy was poor Axel there ! 
 
 A castle stood deep in a grove. 
 
 It was the mansion of my love. 
 
 Pierced, dying, in a wood apart 
 
 I lay, life gave she with a kiss. 
 
 To my embrace she gave her heart, 
 
 That heart so warm, so rich in bliss! 
 
 Now in her faded breast, like stone 
 
 It lieth cold ! — and all is gone ! 
 
 Ye stars that burn in yonder sky, 
 
 I pray you, quench your light and die ! 
 
 I knew a morning-star so bright — 
 
 A sea of blood hath drowned its light ! 
 
 The scent of blood 1)reathes from the strand, 
 
 Its crimson stain is on my hand ! " — 
 
AXEL. 305 
 
 Such was the wail on Sotaskar ! 
 
 When the day kindled, he was there, 
 
 Nor turned away at fall of eve, 
 
 But lingered still to watch and grieve. 
 
 Dead on that shore one morn he sat, 
 
 With folded hands, as if in prayer, 
 
 On the pale cheek tears resting, that 
 
 Were stiffened by the frosty air. 
 
 And on the grave wherein she slept 
 
 His eyes, though glazed in death, he kept. 
 
 Such was the saga that I heard. 
 How deep, how tenderly it stirred ! 
 Full thirty winters since have strewn 
 Their snows ; my heart preserves it still ; 
 For childhood's fancies sharply drawn, 
 With outline clear, are graven well 
 Upon the poet's soul ; there they, — 
 As in King Heimer's harp once lay 
 
306 roEMS. 
 
 Fair Aslog * — rest, till starting forth, 
 Like her they prove their noble birth 
 With gorgeous robes and bearing high, 
 And golden hair and kingly eye. 
 Oh ! childhood's heaven doth ever hold 
 Its counties lyres of ruddy gold ; 
 Whate'er the bard doth later sing. 
 Heroic deeds, or flowers of spring, 
 In fairer forms all hath passed by, 
 In earlier days, his childhood's eye. 
 Still, when in verdant spring the quail 
 Strikes out his music in the vale, 
 And Luna from the eastern wave 
 Starts like a spectre from the grave, 
 
 * Aslog or Aslaug was the daughter of Sigurd Fafnisbani, (slayer of 
 the dragon Fafnir,) a sort of Scandinavian Hercules, and Brynhilda. At the 
 death of her father and mother she was three years old, and Heimir, Bryn- 
 hilda's foster-father, fearing for her the hostility of family enemies, con- 
 cealed her, with splendid garments and much treasure, in a large harp, 
 with which he wandered about as a mendicant musician. The rich cloth- 
 ing having been observed through an opening in the harp, by the mistress 
 of the cottage where they lodged, she incited her husband to kill Ileimir, 
 and the harp being broken open, Aslog was discovered. Sigurd is a fa- 
 vorite hero of the Scandinavian mythic legends, and his life and exploits 
 form the principal subject of the Icelandic Volsunga-Saga. 
 
AXEL. 307 
 
 And painteth liill and painteth dale 
 So sadly Avith death's color pale, 
 Then sighs this ballad in mine ear, 
 And yet again I seem to hear 
 The song learned at the old man's side, 
 Of Axel and his Russian bride. 
 
SONG OF THE LAPLAl^D LOYEE. 
 
 FROM THE SWEDISH OF FEANZEN. 
 
 Francis Michael Franzen was born at Uleaborg in Finland, in 
 1'7'72, but retired to Sweden, when that province was ceded to Russia, 
 and became Bishop of Hornoesand, in which position he remained 
 until his death in 1847. He was among the most conspicuous and 
 active members of the Swedish Academy, and his poems, the best of 
 which are of a simple, natural, idyllic character, are deservedly popu- 
 lar in Sweden. The following song has been especially admired. 
 
 Spring, my reindeer swift ! 
 Over field and fell ! 
 Where my girl doth dwell 
 Thou shalt paw the drift ! 
 There the mosses grow 
 Thick beneath the snow ! 
 
 Ah, how short the day ! 
 And the w^ay so long ! 
 
SONG OF THE LAPLAND LOVEK. 309 
 
 Spring, then, at my song ! 
 Let us haste away ! 
 Rest thou may'st not here ! 
 Wolves are ever near ! 
 
 See, there flies the ern ! 
 
 Blest the winged indeed ! 
 See yon cloudlet speed ! 
 Were I on it borne, 
 I had now erewhile 
 Seen thy far-off smile. 
 
 Thou, this heart that hast 
 Quickly made thy prey — 
 Thus the wild deer they 
 To the tame make fast — 
 Cataract-strong to thee 
 Down thou drawest me ! 
 
 Since thy face I've known, 
 Thoughts by thousands flit 
 
310 POEMS. 
 
 Through me, day and night- 
 Thousands, yet but one ! 
 All in one combine — 
 How to make thee mine ! 
 
 Thou, to hide, may'st lie 
 'Mong the rocks below — 
 Where the fir-woods grow, 
 With thy reindeer fly — 
 Away, away, for me 
 Shall both rock and tree ! 
 
 Spring, my reindeer swift ! 
 Over field and fell ! 
 Where my girl doth dwell 
 Thou shalt paw the drift ! 
 There the mosses grow 
 Thick beneath the snow ! 
 
THE MOSS-EOSE. 
 
 FEOM THE GERMAN OF HELMINE YOX CHEZT, GEB. YON KLENKE. 
 
 Deep in a dell, 'neath woodland shade, 
 The green and tender moss was spread, 
 
 A carpet velvet-soft. 
 Small to the eye indeed, yet still 
 Its tree-like form was wonderful — 
 
 Branch, bough and leafy tuft. 
 
 The low moss saw the wood's greeii pride, 
 The blushing rose ; " Such pomp," it sighed, 
 
 " Heaven hath refused me quite. 
 Here many a light foot treadeth free, 
 But not an eye doth look on me — 
 
 All turn them to the light ! " 
 
312 POEMS. 
 
 Lo ! through that grove, when twilight glows, 
 With wandering step the Saviour goes, 
 
 His features pale and wan ; 
 'Twas grateful when the soft moss met 
 So closely round His bleeding feet 
 
 That still must journey on. 
 
 Late had he left the desert land 
 
 Where fiercely burned the sun and sand — 
 
 The soft moss cooled His heat ; 
 Then spake the Saviour, " From above 
 On thee hath been bestowed such love, 
 
 So earnest, tender, great ! 
 
 " In the slight form assigned to thee 
 Was ever eye too blind to see 
 
 The Maker's power and grace ? 
 Thou little plant so lightly prized, 
 Thee hath thy Father not despised. 
 
 Be patient in thy place ! " 
 
THE MOSS-ROSE. 313 
 
 Scarce had the Saviour spoken thus, 
 When, suddenly, sjDrings from the moss 
 
 A rose most fair to see. 
 From it the name of moss-rose comes, 
 And now in every land it blooms, 
 
 Sweet type of modesty. 
 
 Into Christ's earthly cup some sweet 
 
 The moss had poured — had kissed His feet ; 
 
 This its reward at last. 
 O heart, still true and tender rest. 
 If, like the moss, thou art depressed. 
 
 The rose is budding fiist ! 
 
 14 
 
THE GLOW-WOEM. 
 
 FROM THE GEEMAN OF HELMINE YON CHEZY, GEB. VON KLENKE. 
 
 The blessed John once walked beside 
 A limpid stream, and watched its tide. 
 Through grass and flowers his jDathway lies, 
 He marks them well with loving eyes, 
 So fresh their bloom, so fair to sight — 
 ' Oh, God, this earth of Thine how bright ! 
 The little floweret smiling still 
 While buds and verdure fill the vale ! 
 There's not a leaf or flower, I ween. 
 But hath a sense of life within. 
 Each little worm, though meanly dressed, 
 Is in its conscious being blessed. 
 Where'er a spark of life doth dwell 
 The love of God abideth still ! ' 
 
THE GLOW-WOEM. 315 
 
 With glowing heart thus musing, he 
 Upon the earth a worm doth see ; 
 A iDoor, gray thing, of make so slight 
 His foot had well-nigh crushed it quite. 
 
 He lifted it, with tender care, 
 
 And placed it on a blossom Hiir. 
 
 " Live, live ! " the loved disciple said, 
 
 " For thee, too, were spring's bounties shed ! " 
 
 The touch scarce felr that little frame, 
 
 When a cpiick sense of blessing came ; 
 
 Love's warmth through every fibre flows. 
 
 And lo, with pleasing light it glows ! 
 
 Wings grow apace, and him they bear 
 Through the wide pathway of the air ; 
 O'er tree tops, on soft gales of night, 
 He floats as flashing emerald bright, 
 Or, spread upon a flower, he lies 
 Like a star fallen from the skies ; 
 Soft on the turf then sinks that ray, 
 And, loving still, doth pale away. 
 
A GODLIE HYMI^E, 
 
 INDITED BY HULDKYCII ZWINGLE, WHEN HE WAS SMITTEN OF TE 
 PESTILENCE. 
 
 I. In ye begynninge of hys maladye. 
 
 Lorde God, lielpe mec 
 In this my neede ! 
 I thinke indeede 
 Dethe's at the doore. 
 
 Em CHRISTENLICH GSANG, 
 
 GESTKLLT DUKCH HULDRYCII ZWINGLI, ALS ER MIT PESTILENZ ANGQEIKFEN WARD- 
 
 I, Im Anfang der KranhheM. 
 
 Hilf, herr gott, hilf 
 In diser not ! 
 Ich mein der tod 
 Syg an der thiir. 
 
A GODLIE HYltfNE. 317 
 
 Stonde Thou before 
 
 Mee, Christ, for Thou hast vanquisht Dethe ! 
 
 I crye to Thee ; 
 
 Plucke, ifThou wille, 
 
 The shafte oute stille, 
 
 That woundeth sore, 
 
 And not an houre 
 
 Dothe let me drawe in peace my brethe ! 
 
 If Thou decree 
 
 That I shal be 
 
 Dethe's praye, my dayes halfe ronne, 
 
 Stand, Christe, fiir, 
 
 Dann du in iiberwunden hast. 
 
 Zuo dir ich gilf : 
 
 1st es din will, 
 
 Ziich us den pfyl 
 
 Der mich verwundt ; 
 
 Xit lass ein stund 
 
 Mich haben weder mow noch rast. 
 
 Willt du dann glych 
 
 Tod haben mich 
 
 Inmitts der tagen min, 
 
318 POEMS. 
 
 So tlienne, Thy wille be done ! 
 
 Doe Thou Thy choyce; 
 
 I have no voyce ; 
 
 Thy creature stille 
 
 Make whole, or spille ! 
 
 And callest Thou 
 
 My sj^irit nowe 
 
 Awaye from tyme, 
 
 Thou sav'st it from alle worser cryme, 
 
 And ne'er againe 
 
 Another's soule 'twill tainct wyth sinne. 
 
 So soil es willig syn. 
 
 Tbuo wie du willt : 
 
 Mich niit befilt. 
 
 Din haf bin ich : 
 
 Macli ganz aid brich, 
 
 Dann nimmst du hin 
 
 Den geiste min 
 
 Von diser erd, 
 
 Thuost dus dass er nit bocser werd 
 
 Aid andern nit 
 
 Befleck ir lebcn fromm iind sitt. 
 
A GODLIE HYMNE. 319 
 
 II. In the middest of ye disease. 
 
 Give comfort, Lorde ! 
 
 Mine ill cloth waxe, 
 
 My frame paine rackes, 
 
 My spirit, feare. 
 
 Therefore drawe neare, 
 
 Thou onlie Comforter ! with grace 
 
 That do the accorde 
 
 Pardon to alle 
 
 On Thee that calle 
 
 With hope entyre 
 
 II. In Mitten der Krankheit. 
 
 Troest, herr gott, troest ! 
 
 Die krankheit wachst, 
 
 Wee und angst fasst 
 
 Min seel und ]yb. 
 
 Darum dich schyb 
 
 Gen mir, einiger trost, niit gnad ; 
 
 Die gwiiss erloest 
 
 Ein ieden der 
 
 Sin herzlich bger 
 
 Und hoffnung setzt 
 
 In dich, verschatzt 
 
320 POEMS. 
 
 And strong desyre, 
 
 And count ertlie's gaine or losse but base. 
 
 Nowe alle is o'er ! 
 
 I noe worde more 
 
 Can speake ; my tonge is dombe, 
 
 My senses all are nombe. 
 
 Forthy, 'tis neede 
 
 That Thou do pleade 
 
 My cause at lengthe. 
 
 I have no strengthe 
 
 Wherewyth I mighte 
 
 Darzuo diss zyts all niitz und schad. 
 
 Xim ist es um. 
 
 Min zung ist stumni, 
 
 Mag sprechen nit ein wort. 
 
 Min sinn sind all verdorrt. 
 
 Darum ist zvt 
 
 Dass du min stryt 
 
 Fuerist fiirhin, 
 
 So ich nit bin 
 
 So stark, dass ich 
 
 Moeg tapferlich 
 
A GODLIE IIYMNE. 321 
 
 Fyght the goode fighte, 
 
 And bolde withstonde 
 
 Tlie Divcll's wyles and cruell honde. 
 
 Yet fixt shall be, 
 
 Ilowe'er he rage, my hearte on Thee ! 
 
 III. Whenne hys sicknesse was amended. 
 
 Helthe, helthe, O Lorde ! 
 I thynke at laste 
 The paryl paste. 
 Thou willynge, sinne 
 
 Thuon widerstand 
 
 Des tiifels faclit und frefner hand. 
 
 Doch wirt min gmuet 
 
 Staet blyben dir, wie er jocli wuet. 
 
 III. //I der Besserung. 
 
 Gsund, heiT gott, gsund ! 
 Ich mein ich keer 
 Schon widrum her. 
 Ja woun dich dunkt, 
 14* 
 
322 roEMs. 
 
 Shal ne'er againe 
 
 On erthe mee in hys daunger holde. 
 
 My moiithe Thy worde 
 
 And praise, moche more 
 
 Than e'er before, 
 
 Shall publyshe wyde 
 
 Withonten guile, all plaine and bolde. 
 
 Though I must paye 
 
 Dethe's debt one daye, 
 
 And it indeede may bee 
 
 With greater payne to mee 
 
 Der siinden funk 
 
 Werd nit meer bherschcn mieli uf erd, 
 
 So muoss min mund 
 
 Din lob und leer 
 
 Ussprechen meer 
 
 Dann rormals ie, 
 
 Wie es joch geh, 
 
 Einfaltiglich on alle gfyerd. 
 
 Wiewol ich muoss 
 
 Des todes buoss 
 
 Erlyden zwar einmal 
 
A GODLIE HYMNE. 323 
 
 Than hadde befel. 
 
 Lorde, if Thy wille 
 
 But even nowe 
 
 Hadde bid me goe, 
 
 Yet wol I beare 
 
 The stryfe and care 
 
 Oferthe, O Lorde, 
 
 In joyfulle hope of Thy rewarde, 
 
 Wyth helpe from Thee, 
 
 Withoute whych nought may parfyt bee ! 
 
 Villycht mit groessrem qual 
 
 Dann iezund waer 
 
 Gescliehen, herr, 
 
 So ich sunst bin 
 
 Nach gfaren bin, 
 
 So will ich doch 
 
 Den trutz und poch 
 
 In diser welt 
 
 Tragen froelich urn widergelt 
 
 Mit hilfe din, 
 
 On den niit mag vollkommen s}ti. 
 
TO 
 
 Beloved ! thou whose tender care hath fed 
 My flickering lamp of life for many a year, 
 Thon who hast watched beside my weary bed, 
 And dried with loving hand the frequent tear, — 
 
 Who, when each healing art had proved in vain, 
 With a strong arm thy helpless burthen bore, 
 Despite the threatenings of the stormy main, 
 To milder breezes on a foreign shore, — 
 
 Sweet was our rest in Arno's lovely vale, 
 Amid her olive groves, her orange bowers, 
 And if health came not on the balmy gale, 
 Better than health the memory of such hours ! 
 
TO ^^ 325 
 
 Nor less delight from Elmo's rock to gaze 
 On the proud city spread so fair below, 
 And on that classic sea red with the rays 
 Of such a sunset as those skies may show. 
 
 What awful pleasure, too, at midnight stirred, 
 When from Vesuvius, like a sudden day, 
 Shot the wild flames and molten lava poured, 
 Turning to blood the waters of that bay ! 
 
 Lifting my languid head, thou bad'st me look 
 Where blazing rocks in showers were upward driven, 
 With mighty thunderings from below, that shook 
 As if the fiends of hell again made war on heaven. 
 
 And all one golden winter did we lie 
 Eocked softly on the breast of Nilus old, 
 Silent with wonder, as we floated by 
 Pharaonic glories still lefl: half untold. 
 
826 POEMS. 
 
 Beneath the shadow of Arabian palms 
 Thou'st gently fanned my heavy eyes to rest, 
 Praymg new life might come with spicy balms 
 Breathed o'er me from the land well named ' the Blest.' 
 
 On hallowed Olivet our feet have trod, 
 
 Where lie of Nazareth was wont to pray, — 
 
 We wept o'er Salem that disowned her God, 
 
 Her glorious garments stained, her kingdom rent away. 
 
 Fair was our summer home as childhood's dream, 
 Where, robed in clouds of canvas floating free, — 
 While gilded barges gay his bosom gem — 
 The dark blue Bosphorus hastes from sea to sea. 
 
 Greece, with her purple islands swathed in gold. 
 Her skies transparent as the ^Egean flood. 
 Her mountains, that heaven's rainboAv-robes enfold — 
 Even on that mythic shore together we have stood. 
 
TO — ^ . 327 
 
 Nor sight of Nature's fairest scenes alone 
 I owe thy love, O friend most true and wise ! 
 Art's highest wonders, old and new, thou'st shown, 
 And taught me how to see, and how to prize. 
 
 And thy beloved voice hath charmed mine ear 
 With many a sage's, many a nation's lore, 
 Lifting my soul above each selfish care, 
 When on the page sublime these eyes could look no 
 more. 
 
 Lo, now the humble offering that I make ! — 
 
 A poor return for culture — well I know ! — 
 
 Given with such liberal hand — yet do thou take ! — 
 
 And may some future day fruits less unw^orthy shovr ! 
 
 THE END. 
 
 I JTiApii'.ii^o"] 
 

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