THE COURTSHIP OF 
 MILES STANDISH 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION 
 
 BY 
 
 RICHARD BURTON 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 
 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
CO 
 
 \eoO 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Copyright, 1900, 
 By THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 
 
o&- 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. Miles Standish 3 
 
 II. Love and Friendship . . . .12 
 
 III. The Lover's Errand 23 
 
 IV. John Alden 39 
 
 V. The Sailing of the May Flower . . 54 
 
 VI. Priscilla 69 
 
 VII. The March of Miles Standish . . So 
 
 VIII. The Spinning-Wheel 91 
 
 IX. The Wedding-Day 102 
 
 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 
 
 Prometheus, or the Poet's Forethol 
 The Ladder of St. Augustine . 
 The Phantom Ship 
 The Warden of the Cinque Ports 
 Haunted Houses .... 
 In the Churchyard at Cambridge 
 The Emperor's Bird's-Nest . 
 iii 
 
 "5 
 119 
 122 
 126 
 130 
 133 
 J35 
 
 M103146 
 
IV 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 The Two Angels .... 
 Daylight and Moonlight . 
 The Jewish Cemetery at Newport 
 Oliver Basselin .... 
 Victor Galbraith .... 
 My Lost Youth . . . 
 The Ropewalk .... 
 The Golden Mile-Stone 
 Catawba Wine .... 
 Santa Filomena .... 
 The Discoverer of the North Cape 
 
 Daybreak 
 
 The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz 
 
 Children 
 
 Sandalphon 
 
 Epimetheus, or the Poet's Afterthought 
 
 139 
 
 143 
 
 !5o 
 
 155 
 
 158 
 164 
 168 
 172 
 176 
 179 
 186 
 188 
 191 
 194 
 
 Notes 
 
 203 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 One thinks of Longfellow, perhaps, first of all, as 
 the maker of many a tender song, many a lyric of 
 music and imagination, many a stirring ballad of 
 by-gone days and deeds. Then a few more ambi- 
 tious works come to mind : Evangeline, a narrative 
 poem of native subject, told in a metre which at the 
 time had all the merit of bold innovation ; Hiawatha, 
 another spirited and successful venture into the native 
 field, and using a rhythmic vehicle at once fresh and 
 happy: the Tales of a Wayside Inn, linking together 
 in a song-sequence narratives of old times and new ; 
 The Spanish Student, dewy with a young poet-schol- 
 ar's sense of the romantic tragedy inherent in that 
 fateful land. 
 
 But as one meditates upon the full exercise of his 
 poetic gift, one is likely to feel that this beloved 
 singers just claim upon the affectionate memory of 
 after time is due to his felicitous handling of subjects, 
 humorous or tragic, which get their rootage in Ameri- 
 can soil. Despite much culture and a cosmopolitan 
 range of themes, Longfellow stands forth as a repre- 
 sentative poet of our earlier period, because he drew 
 the inspiration for his best work from motives lying 
 ready to hand in his own country, Neither Whittier 
 nor Holmes, neither Emerson nor Lowell, are more 
 
vi INTR on UC TION. 
 
 American in this sense ; a poet like Poe is seen to be 
 hardly American at all. It is true that art is some- 
 thing vastly larger than nationality ; and it is, there- 
 fore, foolish to invoke a self-conscious attempt on the 
 writer's part to reflect his environment in his literary 
 production. The expression of country and locality 
 in literature should be instinctive and not come of 
 observation. But it is also true — and the truth may 
 be emphasized — that the people will only ratify as 
 their exponent in song the man whom they recognize 
 as thus interpreting their personal and collective life. 
 This service Longfellow, linguist, translator, traveller, 
 and professor as he was, has performed, and hence it 
 is that he has always been — it is hardly too much to 
 say — our most widely cherished bard. The present- 
 day critic who dismisses him carelessly as pleasing 
 rather than great, must reckon with this not unimpor- 
 tant fact in any attempt at a proper valuation. So, 
 too, all estimates which bear down on Longfellow as 
 the product of scholarship, travel, and world-culture, 
 unfairly minimize the more popular aspect of his 
 accomplishment. 
 
 The delightful narrative poem of The Courtship 
 of Miles Standish is one of these typical creations we 
 have in mind. It is a rendering playful, yet tender, 
 realistic in setting, yet touched with romance, of a 
 story from our early colonial history, in which charac- 
 ters who are in danger of being names and nothing 
 more in the hands of the formal chronicler are 
 brought near to us and made warm and sympathetic 
 by means of imaginative presentation. This, by the 
 
INTRODUCTION. vii 
 
 bye, is one of the steady offices of literature in the 
 interest of history. Longfellow, moreover, in turn- 
 ing to such a theme, set an example in the use of 
 older material for literary purposes. We are nowadays 
 witnessing a remarkable turning on the part of novel- 
 ists — fiction at present being the dominant literary 
 form — to historic incidents and motives, to furnish 
 the stuff for historic romances. The impulse is a 
 healthy reaction from a too ardent devotion to the 
 novel of contemporary life, realistically limned ; and 
 it is producing fiction, to name current examples, like 
 Dr. Mitchell's Hugh Wynne, Mr. Stimson's King 
 JVbauett, Mr. Churchill's Richard Carvel, Mr. Ford's 
 Janice Meredith, and Miss Johnston's To Have and 
 to Hold. Although poetry rather than fiction was 
 the form of his election, Longfellow, half a century 
 ago, showed himself sympathetic to this welcome 
 influence, whereby our literature becomes the more 
 homogeneous and distinctive. He might be called 
 an early realist in letters as to his themes and his 
 method of dealing with them. This in the days 
 before the word " realism " was bandied about in 
 literary parlance as now it is. Turning back to the 
 bleak annals of the Puritan Colony at Plymouth in 
 the early seventeenth century, he illuminates the past, 
 gray with time-mists, by a homely tale of human joy 
 and sorrow, and warms it with a genial humor which 
 relieves what might otherwise lean toward the pro- 
 saic or tragic. The days of Captain Miles Standish 
 of sometime memory were days strenuous and 
 gloomed — as you may learn from the pages of Justin 
 
Vlll INTR OD UCTION. 
 
 VVinsor. But in Longfellow's hands, the story of 
 the little, mighty soldier, of his scholar-friend, the 
 yellow-haired, azure-eyed Alden, and of the fair, simple 
 maiden, Priscilla, is softened and sweetened by a poet's 
 art until kindly smiles, a dash of tears, and a tender 
 pleasantness are evoked by the poem's very name. 
 
 The poem called forth the typical powers of the 
 author: here is seen to full advantage his gift for 
 narrative verse, full of clear-cut pictures and carried 
 upon a rhythmic flow that is admirably adapted to 
 the end in view ; and, above all, his grasp upon, his 
 feeling for, the permanent elements of life in such a 
 scene. The poem plays between love and war, those 
 two lasting motives, and is thus based firm upon abid- 
 ing interests. Few works of Longfellow — or of any 
 other American singer — offer themselves so sugges- 
 tively to the artist with the brush ; when the Court- 
 ship had been published scarcely a month, we find 
 the poet's diary entry under the date November 28, 
 1858 : " Ehringer has sent me a beautiful illustration 
 of Miles Standish. It is the bridal procession going 
 through the woods, and is full of feeling." This was 
 the first of sketches and pictures not a few which 
 have embellished the favorite song-story. 
 
 We find by referring to Longfellow's Journal 
 that he started the Standish poem — which, for the 
 heroine's name, he first called Priscilla — Place aux 
 dames I — on December 20, 1857, the day being "soft 
 as spring." " I begin a new poem," he says, " i Pris- 
 cilla ' ; to be a kind of Puritan pastoral ; the subject 
 'The Courtship of Miles Standish. 1 This, I think, 
 
INTR OD UCTION. IX 
 
 will be a better treatment of the subject than the 
 dramatic one I wrote some time ago. 11 The reference 
 is a commentary on Longfellow's nice criticism of his 
 own limitations ; aware that the narrative rather than 
 the dramatic was his forte, he passed from an experi- 
 ment in the less congenial form to most acceptable 
 accomplishment in that which was natural to his 
 genius. The next day he adds: "My poem is in 
 hexameters, an idyl of the old Colony times. 11 In a 
 letter to Charles Sumner he happily describes it as 
 " a bunch of Mayflowers from the Plymouth woods. 11 
 Further : " What it will turn out — I do not know, 
 but it gives me pleasure to write it ; and that I count 
 for something. 11 From various other entries we follow 
 the " idyl " in the workshop until its completion on 
 the 22d of March, when revision is undertaken. A 
 month later it is in process of printing, and its maker 
 is " seeing all its defects as it stands before me in 
 type. It is always disagreeable when the glow of 
 composition is over to criticise what one has been 
 in love with. We think it is Rachel but wake to find 
 it Leah, 11 —the usual mood after creation. In an- 
 other letter to Sumner, dated July 10, he declares 
 the poem to be founded " on the well-known adven- 
 ture of my maternal ancestor, John Alden/ 1 an inter- 
 esting fact in explaining the poet's choice of theme, 
 and possibly supplying a reason for special sympathy 
 with the modest scholar-wooer, whose gentle timidity 
 is such a foil to the robustious Miles in the opening 
 scene, that one is half inclined to side for the nonce 
 with the soldier. 
 
X INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The Courtship of Miles Standish was duly pub- 
 lished by Ticknor and Fields of Boston, whose pre- 
 scriptive rights to our standard elder American writers 
 have been inherited by the present house of Houghton, 
 Mifflin and Company. There was no question about 
 its success. Again the Journal helps us out : under 
 date of October 16 we read : " The Courtship of Miles 
 Standish published. At noon Ticknor told me he 
 had sold five thousand in Boston, besides the orders 
 from a distance. He had printed ten thousand, and 
 has another ten thousand in press. 1 ' On the 23d he 
 says : " Between these two Saturdays Miles Standish 
 has marched steadily on. Another five thousand are 
 in press; in all, an army of twenty-five thousand — 
 in one week. Fields tells me that in London ten 
 thousand were sold the first day. 1 ' And a pleasant 
 sequela is noted on November 6, when he gives a 
 dinner ''to Ticknor and Fields, the publishers, in 
 honor of the success of Miles Standish; the other 
 guests, T. Starr King and Whipple." This imme- 
 diate popularity was not to be a temporary thing ; the 
 poem has always been a favorite with the general; 
 its brisk handling of native material, its wholesome 
 fun and vigor, and its picturesqueness of color and 
 charm of music have served to make the composition 
 even unto our own day one of the stock pieces upon 
 which properly reared American school children are 
 exercised: lines and passages in it are among the 
 English-speaking world's most familiar possessions. 
 
 Longfellow was turned of fifty when the poem was 
 written ; it is work of his ripe maturity. For a poet to 
 
INTR OD UCTION. XI 
 
 produce one of his characteristic and best-liked things 
 at this time of life is by no means unprecedented, 
 but may be fairly called somewhat unusual. The 
 exceptions are most often in the line of epic produc- 
 tions : Dante was presumably in the fifties when the 
 Divine Comedy took lasting shape; Milton a man 
 close on to sixty when Paradise Lost appeared. I 
 may add that it is difficult to believe that the Homeric 
 poems were the outcome of a young bard's view of 
 life. The poetry of passion, to be sure, has been 
 made prevailingly in the heyday of the blood. But 
 Longfellow was never the poet of passion in the 
 Byronic sense ; neither was he ever the poet of revolt, — 
 but rather the singer of the calm, deep love that cen- 
 tres in the home hearth ; and of the natural feelings 
 and interests of normal humanity, — a field less strik- 
 ingly rugged and bold, but fully as fruitful in the 
 growths it gives the world. Not only was he in the 
 trained exercise of his powers ; he had also reached 
 an assured place of easy fortune and wide reputation. 
 Some three or four years before he had felt able to 
 resign his Harvard chair in favor of Lowell, in order 
 to devote his full strength and time to letters. And 
 the life at Craigie House now and hereafter was 
 ample in style and beautiful with unrestricted social 
 graces. Only three years later (in 1861), with the 
 war cloud on the land, was to come the tragic taking- 
 offof his beloved wife, — an affliction which tempered 
 his subsequent work into a graver sweetness, although, 
 because of the essential soundness of his nature, it 
 did not embitter nor harshen his song. 
 
Xll INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Longfellow was then, in all ways, at the right age 
 for epic writing — or for that modern branch of the 
 epic commonly called narrative verse. The Coui't- 
 sliip of Miles Standish might be termed, for the story 
 interest, picturesqueness, unity of design, and sustained 
 power of poetic expression, a little epic. The metre 
 he adopted for the poem was likewise well suited to 
 this kind of work. Ten years or more before (in 
 1847) na ri appeared one of his masterpieces, the 
 Acadian idyl of Evangeline. At that time the Eng- 
 lish hexameter was practically unknown in American 
 poetry, as indeed it was in English verse as a whole. 
 Of the several attempts made at about this time to 
 domesticate in our accentual tongue the sweeping 
 Homeric measure, none confessedly is so successful 
 as that of the Cambridge poet, who, with no foolish 
 effort to make a slavish imitation of the classic, admi- 
 rably catches the swing and sound of that movement 
 in which, from its old-time maker's hands, one hears 
 
 " Like ocean on a Western beach, 
 The surge and thunder of the Odyssey." 
 
 The American singer subdued the majesty of the orig- 
 inal somewhat, to fit it to a quiet old tale for whose 
 remoteness and foreign charm the hexameter associa- 
 tions were peculiarly adapted. The popularity of the 
 poem then and now is beyond peradventure due in 
 part to this freshly pleasing metrical use. It was 
 natural, then, that, a decade later, Longfellow should 
 return to the hexameter when he wished to tell another 
 old-time tale, of less breadth and romance of atmos- 
 
INTRODUCTION. Xlll 
 
 phere, but possessing a very genuine poetic quality of 
 
 its own. 
 
 However much slighter than Evangeline as a per- 
 formance, The Courtship of Miles Standish displays 
 the hand of the poet in all its cunning. The metre 
 shows the same plastic adaptation to the purposes of 
 narrative ; in the more glowing descriptive passages 
 or in those of lyric tenderness it moves with all the 
 lure of the most lovely melody ; while in the rugged 
 moments of the tale — as where the doughty Miles 
 defeats his Indian opponents with his trusty band of 
 ten, or the good ship May Flower hoists anchor for 
 the return .voyage to- mother England, — an added 
 strength and colloquial terseness impart a properly 
 dramatic effect. The poem, too, contains excellent 
 examples of Longfellow's mastery of imaginative lan- 
 guage. In happy consonance with the setting of the 
 story, the diction has a quaintness derived from the 
 many biblical images and allusions, — just the figures 
 and fancies which would, we feel, be in the minds 
 and on the mouths of those God-fearing,^ Scripture- 
 following Puritan ancestors of ours aforetime. This 
 is a marked feature of the style. 
 
 The selection of the salient points of the tale for 
 poetic treatment bespeaks the true artist. The kernel 
 of the whole thing, as Longfellow himself tells us, is 
 in Priscilla's famous, tremulous-coy question, — 
 " Why don't you speak for yourself, John ? " 
 
 Around this suggestion the poet develops his narra- 
 tive. First the martial character of Miles is capitally 
 
X IV INTR OD UC TION. 
 
 hit off, with Alden in sharp contrast to him ; then 
 comes the soldier's frank avowal of his love and his 
 awkwardness in the premises. Unlike Othello, an- 
 other soldier-wooer, he has no complete confidence 
 that Priscilla will love him for the dangers he had 
 passed ; and John, inwardly agonized at his false 
 position, but faithful at all hazards to his friend, con- 
 veys the proposal-by-proxy, only to be shown (though 
 he is a trifle slow to see it) that this sweet mistress is 
 for quite another market — one nearer home. Particu- 
 larly noteworthy is the skill with which the char- 
 acters of Alden and Standish are set over against one 
 another, the traits distinctive of each just those which 
 would naturally make the two men antagonists not 
 only in love but in life ; yet both hold our sympa- 
 thetic liking, Standish quite as firmly as Alden, and 
 their relation, albeit strained for a season, is too close 
 not to stand the test, so that a general peace recurs 
 when the stalwart Indian fighter, after being reported 
 dead, returns to bless the bridal party. It is easy to 
 forgive the poet, who preferred to constitute himself 
 a God from the machine, and not allow even the 
 minor melancholy of the captain's death to make a 
 note of discord among the marriage bells. This is 
 indicative of Longfellow's method, of his conception 
 of the aim of poetry ; luckily, he did not live in the 
 day of the " inevitableness " of the sad ending. 
 
 The climax seems to have been reached when in 
 the third canto Priscilla rejects Miles ; yet but a third 
 of the poem has been read. The going of the latter 
 to war, the sailing of the May Flower ; Alden's deci- 
 
INTR OD UCTION. xv 
 
 sion to stay at Plymouth for the sake of guarding his 
 lady-love, the tidings of the killing of his rival, thus 
 untying his tongue so that the full confession of his 
 feeling may follow, — these incidents and scenes lead 
 up with perfect naturalness to the culmination, — and 
 to the simple but everlastingly true and hence lovely 
 picture of these lovers walking, after the ceremony 
 that has made them one, through the forest, whose 
 outward fairness of stately autumn blazonry is but a 
 symbol of their inward rapture and peace. It is a 
 close both pure and beautiful, — and very typical of 
 our maiden-hearted American singer : — 
 
 " Like a picture it seemed of the primitive pastoral ages, 
 Fresh with the youth of the world and recalling Rebecca and 
 
 Isaac, 
 Old and yet ever new and simple and beautiful always, 
 Love immortal and young in the endless succession of lovers." 
 
 An interesting comparison might be instituted 
 between this poem and another masterpiece in little, 
 Goethe's charming pastoral narrative, Hermann and 
 Dorothea. Both are genialized by a homely human 
 sympathy in the characters represented. The Ger- 
 man poem, which was written half a century earlier 
 than the American, has the archaic touches which lend 
 it an old-world charm also felt in Longfellow's shaping 
 of the Puritan story. Both too are, on the formal side, 
 written in flowing hexameters ; and both have humor 
 salient against a grim background of suffering ; while 
 in both the prevailing mood is a sort of reminiscent 
 tenderness, an afterglow of half-pensive happiness. 
 Nor is the great German poet more true to the village 
 
XVI INTR OD UCTIOtf. 
 
 life of his country in the days when the French were 
 devastating its borders and bands of terror-smitten 
 fugitives fled across the Rhine, than is the American 
 poet to our primitive civilization that was so godly, 
 stanch, and well founded on the abiding principles 
 of self-government. It is worth adding, to complete 
 the parallel, that, like The Courtship of Miles Staudish, 
 Hermann and Dorothea has stimulated many native 
 artists to limn its scenes with brush and pencil. 
 
 A certain kind of literature is always welcomed, 
 and long held in affectionate remembrance : that 
 which, while neither plumbing the murky depths 
 nor scaling the stormy heights of man's passionate 
 tragi-comedy called Life, yet, with less of pretension, 
 gives a true portrayal of the representative inter- 
 ests and emotions of humanity, — doing this by 
 painting genre pictures with a sure hand, a realistic 
 fidelity, and a loving heart. Productions like Whit- 
 tier's Snowbound and Longfellow's The Courtship of 
 Miles Standish are of this character; and it is 
 only as time passes and they are seen in historical 
 perspective that their full worth and potent attrac- 
 tion come to be all perceived. 
 
 RICHARD BURTON. 
 
THE 
 
 COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 
 
»» • 9 9 
 
 ' 
 
 THE 
 
 COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 
 
 I. 
 
 MILES STANDISH. 
 
 In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land 
 of the Pilgrims, 
 
 To and fro in a room of his simple and primi- 
 tive dwelling, 
 
 Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordo- 
 van leather, 
 
 Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the 
 Puritan Captain. 
 
 Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands 
 behind him, and pausing 
 
 Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons 
 of warfare, 
 
 3 
 
4 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 
 
 Hanging in shining array along the walls of the 
 chamDe^^-', 
 
 Cutlass and corslet of steel, and his trusty 
 sword of Damascus, 
 
 Curved at the point and inscribed with its mys- 
 tical Arabic sentence, 
 
 While underneath, in a corner, were fowling- 
 piece, musket, and matchlock. 
 
 Short of stature he was, but strongly built and 
 athletic, 
 
 Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with mus- 
 cles and sinews of iron ; 
 
 Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet 
 beard was already 
 
 Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges some- 
 times in November. 
 
 Near him was seated John Alden, his friend, 
 and household companion, 
 
 Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine 
 by the window ; 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 5 
 
 Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon 
 
 complexion, 
 Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty 
 
 thereof, as the captives 
 Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, "Not 
 
 Angles but Angels." 
 Youngest of all was he of the men who came 
 
 in the May Flower. 
 
 Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent 
 
 scribe interrupting, 
 Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish 
 
 the Captain of Plymouth. 
 " Look at these arms," he said, " the warlike 
 
 weapons that hang here 
 Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade 
 
 or inspection ! 
 This is the sword of Damascus I fought with 
 
 in Flanders ; this breastplate, 
 Well I remember the day ! once saved my life 
 
 in a skirmish; 
 
6 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 Here in front you can see the very dint of the 
 
 bullet 
 Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish 
 
 arcabucero. 
 Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten 
 
 bones of Miles Standish 
 Would at this moment be mould, in their 
 
 grave in the Flemish morasses." 
 Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked 
 
 not up from his writing: 
 "Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened 
 
 the speed of the bullet; 
 He in his mercy preserved you, to be our 
 
 shield and our weapon!" 
 Still the Captain continued, unheeding the 
 
 words of the stripling: 
 "See, how bright they are burnished, as if in 
 
 an arsenal hanging; 
 That is because I have done it myself, and 
 
 not left it to others. 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 7 
 
 Serve yourself, would you be well served, is 
 
 an excellent adage; 
 So I take care of my arms, as you of your 
 
 pens and your inkhorn. 
 Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, 
 
 invincible army, 
 Twelve men, all equipped, having each his 
 
 rest and his matchlock, 
 Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet 
 
 and pillage, 
 And, like Caesar, I know the name of each 
 
 of my soldiers ! " 
 This he said with a smile, that danced in 
 
 his eyes, as the sunbeams 
 Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish 
 
 again in a moment. 
 Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Cap- 
 tain continued: 
 "Look! you can see from this window my 
 
 brazen howitzer planted 
 
8 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH 
 
 High on the roof of the church, a preachei 
 
 who speaks to the purpose, 
 Steady, straight-forward, and strong, with irre- 
 sistible logic, 
 Orthodox, flashing conviction right into the 
 
 hearts of the heathen. 
 Now we are ready, I think, for any assault of 
 
 the Indians; 
 Let them come, if they like, and the sooner 
 
 they try it the better, — 
 Let them come if they like, be it sagamore, 
 
 sachem, or pow-wow, 
 Aspinet, Samoset, Corbitant, Squanto, or To- 
 
 kamahamon!" 
 
 Long at the window he stood, and wistfully 
 gazed on the landscape, 
 
 Washed with a cold gray mist, the vapory 
 breath of the east-wind, 
 
 Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel- 
 blue rim of the ocean, 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 9 
 
 Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows 
 
 and sunshine. 
 Over his countenance flitted a shadow like 
 
 those on the landscape, 
 Gloom intermingled with light; and his voice 
 
 was subdued with emotion, 
 Tenderness, pity, regret, as after a pause he 
 
 proceeded : 
 "Yonder there, on the hill by the sea, lies 
 
 buried Rose Standish; 
 Beautiful rose of love, that bloomed for me 
 
 by the wayside! 
 She was the first to die of all who came in 
 
 the May Flower! 
 Green above her is growing the field of wheat 
 
 we have sown there, 
 Better to hide from the Indian scouts the 
 
 graves of our people, 
 Lest they should count them and see how 
 
 many already have perished ! " 
 
10 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 Sadly his face he averted, and strode up and 
 down, and was thoughtful. 
 
 Fixed to the opposite wall was a shelf of 
 books, and among them 
 
 Prominent three, distinguished alike for bulk 
 and for binding; 
 
 Bariffe's Artillery Guide, and the Commen- 
 taries of Caesar, 
 
 Out of the Latin translated by Arthur Goldinge 
 of London, 
 
 And, as if guarded by these, between them 
 was standing the Bible. 
 
 Musing a moment before them, Miles Standish 
 paused, as if doubtful 
 
 Which of the three he should choose for his 
 consolation and comfort, 
 
 Whether the wars of the Hebrews, the famous 
 campaigns of the Romans, 
 
 Or the Artillery practice, designed for bel- 
 ligerent Christians. 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 11 
 
 Finally down from its shelf he dragged the 
 
 ponderous Roman, 
 Seated himself at the window, and opened the 
 
 book, and in silence 
 Turned o'er the well-worn leaves, where 
 
 thumb-marks thick on the margin, 
 Like the trample of feet, proclaimed the 
 
 battle was hottest. 
 Nothing was heard in the room but the hurry- 
 ing pen of the stripling, 
 Busily writing epistles important, to go by the 
 
 May Flower, 
 Ready to sail on the morrow, or next day at 
 
 latest, God willing! 
 Homeward bound with the tidings of all that 
 
 terrible winter, 
 Letters written by Alden, and full of the name 
 
 of Priscilla, 
 Full of the name and the fame of the Puritan 
 
 maiden Priscilla! 
 
II. 
 
 LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Nothing was heard in the room but the hurry- 
 ing pen of the stripling, 
 
 Or an occasional sigh from the laboring heart 
 of the Captain, 
 
 Reading the marvellous words and achieve- 
 ments of Julius Caesar. 
 
 After a while he exclaimed, as he smote with 
 his hand, palm downwards, 
 
 Heavily on the page: "A wonderful man was 
 this Caesar! 
 
 You are a writer, and I am a fighter, but here 
 is a fellow 
 
 Who could both write and fight, and in both 
 was equally skilful ! " 
 12 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 13 
 
 Straightway answered and spake John Alden, 
 
 the comely, the youthful: 
 "Yes, he was equally skilled, as you say, with 
 
 his pen and his weapons. 
 Somewhere have I read, but where I forget, 
 
 he could dictate 
 Seven letters at once, at the same time writing 
 
 his memoirs." 
 "Truly," continued the Captain, not heeding 
 
 or hearing the other, 
 "Truly a wonderful man was Caius Julius 
 
 Caesar ! 
 Better be first, he said, in a little Iberian 
 
 village, 
 Than be second in Rome, and I think he was 
 
 right when he said it. 
 Twice was he married before he was twenty, 
 
 and many times after; 
 Battles five hundred he fought, and a thousand 
 cities he conquered; 
 
14 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 He, too, fought in Flanders, as he himself 
 
 has recorded; 
 Finally he was stabbed by his friend, the 
 
 orator Brutus! 
 Now, do you know what he did on a certain 
 
 occasion in Flanders, 
 When the rear-guard of his army retreated, 
 
 the front giving way too, 
 And the immortal Twelfth Legion was crowded 
 
 so closely together 
 There was no room for their swords? Why, 
 
 he seized a shield from a soldier, 
 Put himself straight at the head of his troops 
 
 and commanded the captains, 
 Calling on each by his name, to order for- 
 ward the ensigns; 
 Then to widen the ranks, and give more 
 
 room for their weapons; 
 So he won the day, the battle of something- 
 
 or-other. 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 15 
 
 That's what I always say; if you wish a thing 
 
 to be well done, 
 You must do it yourself, you must not leave 
 
 it to others!" 
 
 All was silent again; the Captain continued 
 
 his reading. 
 Nothing was heard in the room but the hurry- 
 ing pen of the stripling 
 Writing epistles important to go next day by 
 
 the May Flower, 
 Filled with the name and the fame of the 
 
 Puritan maiden Priscilla; 
 Every sentence began or closed with the name 
 
 of Priscilla, 
 Till the treacherous pen, to which he confided 
 
 the secret, 
 Strove to betray it by singing and shouting 
 
 the name of Priscilla! 
 Finally closing his book, with a bang of the 
 
 ponderous cover, 
 
16 THE COURTSHrP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 Sudden and loud as the sound of a soldier 
 
 grounding his musket, 
 Thus to the young man spake Miles Standish 
 
 the Captain of Plymouth: 
 "When you have finished your work, I have 
 
 something important to tell you. 
 Be not however in haste; I can wait; I shall 
 
 not be impatient ! " 
 Straightway Alden replied, as he folded the 
 
 last of his letters, 
 Pushing his papers aside, and giving respect 
 
 ful attention: 
 "Speak; for whenever you speak, I am always 
 
 ready to listen, 
 Always ready to hear whatever pertains to 
 
 Miles Standish." 
 Thereupon answered the Captain, embarrassed, 
 
 and culling his phrases: 
 " 'T is not good for a man to be alone, say 
 
 the Scriptures, 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 17 
 
 This I have said before, and again and again 
 
 I repeat it; 
 Every hour in the day, I think it, and feel 
 
 it, and say it. 
 Since Rose Standish died, my life has been 
 
 weary and dreary; 
 Sick at heart have I been, beyond the healing 
 
 of friendship. 
 Oft in my lonely hours have I thought of the 
 
 maiden Priscilla. 
 She is alone in the world; her father and 
 
 mother and brother 
 Died in the winter together; I saw her going 
 
 and coming, 
 Now to the grave of the dead, and now to 
 
 the bed of the dying, 
 Patient, courageous, and strong, and said to 
 
 myself, that if ever 
 There were angels on earth, as there are 
 
 angels in heaven, 
 
18 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 
 
 Two have I seen and known; and the angel 
 
 whose name is Priscilla 
 Holds in my desolate life the place which the 
 
 other abandoned. 
 Long have I cherished the thought, but never 
 
 have dared to reveal it, 
 Being a coward in this, though valiant enough 
 
 for the most part. 
 Go to the damsel Priscilla, the loveliest 
 
 maiden of Plymouth, 
 Say that a blunt old Captain, a man not of 
 
 words but of actions, 
 Offers his hand and his heart, the hand and 
 
 heart of a soldier. 
 Not in these words, you know, but this in 
 
 short is my meaning; 
 I am a maker of war, and not a maker of 
 
 phrases. 
 You, who are bred as a scholar, can say it in 
 
 elegant language, 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 19 
 
 Such as you read in your books of the plead- 
 ings and wooings of lovers, 
 
 Such as you think best adapted to win the 
 heart of a maiden." 
 
 When he had spoken, John Alden, the fair- 
 haired, taciturn stripling, 
 
 All aghast at his words, surprised, embar- 
 rassed, bewildered, 
 
 Trying to mask his dismay by treating the 
 subject with lightness, 
 
 Trying to smile, and yet feeling his heart 
 stand still in his bosom, 
 
 Just as a timepiece stops in a house that is 
 stricken by lightning, 
 
 Thus made answer and spake, or rather stam- 
 mered than answered: 
 
 "Such a message as that, I am sure I should 
 mangle and mar it; 
 
20 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 If you would have it well done, — I am only 
 
 repeating your maxim, — ■ 
 You must do it yourself, you must not leave 
 
 it to others ! " 
 But with the air of a man whom nothing can 
 
 turn from his purpose, 
 Gravely shaking his head, made answer the 
 
 Captain of Plymouth: 
 "Truly the maxim is good, and I do not 
 
 mean to gainsay it; 
 But we must use it discreetly, and not waste 
 
 powder for nothing. 
 Now, as I said before, I was never a maker 
 
 of phrases. 
 I can march up to a fortress and summon the 
 
 place to surrender, 
 But march up to a woman with such a pro- 
 posal, I dare not. 
 I 'm not afraid of bullets, nor shot from the 
 
 mouth of a cannon, 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 21 
 
 But of a thundering "No!" point-blank from 
 
 the mouth of a woman, 
 That I confess I 'm afraid of, nor am I 
 
 ashamed to confess it! 
 So you must grant my request, for you are an 
 
 elegant scholar, 
 Having the graces of speech, and skill in the 
 
 turning of phrases." 
 Taking the hand of his friend, who still was 
 
 reluctant and doubtful, 
 Holding it long in his own, and pressing it 
 
 kindly, he added: 
 "Though I have spoken thus lightly, yet deep 
 
 is the feeling that prompts me; 
 Surely you cannot refuse what I ask in the 
 
 name of our friendship ! " 
 Then made answer John Alden: "The name 
 
 of friendship is sacred; 
 What you demand in that name, I have not 
 
 the power to deny you!" 
 
22 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 
 
 So the strong will prevailed, subduing and 
 
 moulding the gentler, 
 Friendship prevailed over love, and Alden 
 
 went on his errand. 
 
III. 
 
 THE LOVER'S ERRAND. 
 
 So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went 
 
 on his errand, 
 Out of the street of the village, and into the 
 
 paths of the forest, 
 Into the tranquil woods, where blue-birds and 
 
 robins were building 
 Towns in the populous trees, with hanging 
 
 gardens of verdure, 
 Peaceful, aerial cities of joy and affection 
 
 and freedom. 
 All around him was calm, but within him 
 
 commotion and conflict, 
 Love contending with friendship, and self 
 
 with each generous impulse. 
 23 
 
24 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 
 
 To and fro in his breast his thoughts were 
 
 heaving and dashing, 
 As in a foundering ship, with every roll of 
 
 the vessel, 
 Washes the bitter sea, the merciless surge of 
 
 the ocean ! 
 "Must I relinquish it all," he cried with a 
 
 wild lamentation, 
 "Must I relinquish it all, the joy, the hope, 
 
 the illusion? 
 Was it for this I have loved, and waited, and 
 
 worshipped in silence? 
 Was it for this I have followed the flying feet 
 
 and the shadow 
 Over the wintry sea, to the desolate shores 
 
 of New England? 
 Truly the heart is deceitful, and out of its 
 
 depths of corruption 
 Rise, like an exhalation, the misty phantoms 
 
 of passion; 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 25 
 
 Angels of light they seem, but are only delu- 
 sions of Satan. 
 
 All is clear to me now; I feel it, I see it 
 distinctly! 
 
 This is the hand of the Lord; it is laid upon 
 me in anger, 
 
 For I have followed too much the heart's 
 desires and devices, 
 
 Worshipping Astaroth blindly, and impious 
 idols of Baal. 
 
 This is the cross I must bear; the sin and the 
 swift retribution." 
 
 So through the Plymouth woods John Alden 
 
 went on his errand; 
 Crossing the brook at the ford, where it 
 
 brawled over pebble and shallow, 
 Gathering still, as he went, the May-flowers 
 
 blooming around him, 
 Fragrant, filling the air with a strange and 
 
 wonderful sweetness 
 
2G THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 Children lost in the woods, and covered with 
 
 leaves in their slumber. 
 "Puritan flowers," he said, "and the type of 
 
 Puritan maidens, 
 Modest and simple and sweet, the very type 
 
 of Priscilla ! 
 So I will take them to her; to Priscilla the 
 
 May-flower of Plymouth, 
 Modest and simple and sweet, as a parting 
 
 gift will I take them; 
 Breathing their silent farewells, as they fade 
 
 and wither and perish, 
 Soon to be thrown away as is the heart of the 
 
 giver." 
 So through the Plymouth woods John Alden 
 
 went on his errand; 
 Came to an open space, and saw the disk of 
 
 the ocean, 
 Sail-less, sombre, and cold with the comfort- 
 less breath of the east-wind; 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 27 
 
 Saw the new-built house, and people at work 
 
 in a meadow; 
 Heard, as he drew near the door, the musical 
 
 voice of Priscilla 
 Singing the hundredth Psalm, the grand old 
 
 Puritan anthem, 
 Music that Luther sang to the sacred words of 
 
 the Psalmist, 
 Full of the breath of the Lord, consoling and 
 
 comforting many. 
 Then, as he opened the door, he beheld the 
 
 form of the maiden 
 Seated beside her wheel, and the carded wool 
 
 like a snow-drift 
 Piled at her knee, her white hands feeding 
 
 the ravenous spindle, 
 While with her foot on the treadle she guided 
 
 the wheel in its motion. 
 Open wide on her lap lay the well-worn 
 psalm-book of Ainsworth, 
 
28 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 Printed in Amsterdam, the words and the 
 
 music together, 
 Rough-hewn, angular notes, like stones in the 
 
 wall of a churchyard, 
 Darkened and overhung by the running vine 
 
 of the verses. 
 Such was the book from whose pages she sang 
 
 the old Puritan anthem, 
 She, the Puritan girl, in the solitude of the 
 
 forest, 
 Making the humble house and the modest 
 
 apparel of home -spun 
 Beautiful with her beauty, and rich with the 
 
 wealth of her being! 
 Over him rushed, like a wind that is keen 
 
 and cold and relentless, 
 Thoughts of what might have been, and the 
 
 weight and woe of his errand; 
 All the dreams that had faded, and all the 
 
 hopes that had vanished, 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 29 
 
 All his life henceforth a dreary and tenant- 
 less mansion, 
 Haunted by vain regrets, and pallid, sorrowful 
 
 faces. 
 Still he said to himself, and almost fiercely he 
 
 said it, 
 "Let not him that putteth his hand to the 
 
 plough look backwards; 
 Though the ploughshare cut through the 
 
 flowers of life to its fountains, 
 Though it pass o'er the graves of the dead 
 
 and the hearths of the living, 
 It is the will of the Lord; and his mercy 
 
 endureth for ever! " 
 
 So he entered the house: and the hum of 
 
 the wheel and the singing 
 Suddenly ceased; for Priscilla, aroused by his 
 
 step on the threshold, 
 Rose as he entered, and gave him her hand, 
 
 in signal of welcome, 
 
30 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 Saying, "I knew it was you, when I heard 
 
 your step in the passage; 
 For I was thinking of you, as I sat there 
 
 singing and spinning." 
 Awkward and dumb with delight, that a 
 
 thought of him had been mingled 
 Thus in the sacred psalm, that came from the 
 
 heart of the maiden, 
 Silent before her he stood, and gave her the 
 
 flowers for an answer, 
 Finding no words for his thought. He re- 
 membered that day in the winter, 
 After the first great snow, when he broke a 
 
 path from the village, 
 Reeling and plunging along through the drifts 
 
 that encumbered the doorway, 
 Stamping the snow from his feet as he entered 
 
 the house, and Priscilla 
 Laughed at his snowy locks, and gave him a 
 
 seat by the fireside 3 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 31 
 
 Grateful and pleased to know he had thought 
 
 of her in the snow-storm. 
 Had he but spoken then ! perhaps not in vain 
 
 had he spoken; 
 Now it was all too late; the golden moment 
 
 had vanished ! 
 So he stood there abashed, and gave her the 
 
 flowers for an answer. 
 
 Then they sat down and talked of the birds 
 
 and the beautiful Spring-time, 
 Talked of their friends at home, and the May 
 
 Flower that sailed on the morrow. 
 "I have been thinking all day," said gently 
 
 the Puritan maiden, 
 "Dreaming all night, and thinking all day, of 
 
 the hedge-rows of England, — 
 They are in blossom now, and the country is 
 
 all like a garden; 
 Thinking of lanes and fields, and the song of 
 
 the lark and the linnet, 
 
32 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 Seeing the village street, and familiar faces of 
 
 neighbors 
 Going about as of old, and stopping to gossip 
 
 together, 
 And, at the end of the street, the village 
 
 church, with the ivy 
 Climbing the old gray tower, and the quiet 
 
 graves in the churchyard. 
 Kind are the people I live with, and dear to 
 
 me my religion; 
 Still my heart is so sad, that I wish myself 
 
 back in Old England. 
 You will say it is wrong, but I cannot help 
 
 it:- 1 almost 
 Wish myself back in Old England, I feel so 
 
 lonely and wretched." 
 
 Thereupon answered the youth : — " Indeed 
 I do not condemn you; 
 Stouter hearts than a woman's have quailed in 
 this terrible winter. 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 33 
 
 Yours is tender and trusting, and needs a 
 
 stronger to lean on; 
 So I have come to you now, with an offer 
 
 and proffer of marriage 
 Made by a good man and true, Miles Standish 
 
 the Captain of Plymouth ! " 
 
 Thus he delivered his message, the dexter- 
 ous writer of letters, — 
 Did not embellish the theme, nor array it in 
 
 beautiful phrases, 
 But came straight to the point, and blurted it 
 
 out like a schoolboy; 
 Even the Captain himself could hardly have 
 
 said it more bluntly. 
 Mute with amazement and sorrow, Priscilla 
 
 the Puritan maiden 
 Looked into Alden's face, her eyes dilated 
 
 with wonder, 
 Feeling his words like a blow, that stunned 
 
 her and rendered her speechless; 
 
34 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 
 
 Till at length she exclaimed, interrupting the 
 
 ominous silence: 
 "If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very 
 
 eager to wed me, 
 Why does he not come himself, and take the 
 
 trouble to woo nre? 
 If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am 
 
 not worth the winning!" 
 Then John Alden began explaining and 
 
 smoothing the matter, 
 Making it worse as he went, by saying the 
 
 Captain was busy, — 
 Had no time for such things; — such things! 
 
 the words grating harshly 
 Fell on the ear of Priscilla; and swift as a 
 
 flash she made answer: 
 "Has he no time for such things, as you call 
 
 it, before he is married, 
 Would he be likely to find it, or make it, 
 
 after the wedding? 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 35 
 
 That is the way with you men; you don't 
 
 understand us, you cannot. 
 When you have made up your minds, after 
 
 thinking of this one and that one, 
 Choosing, selecting, rejecting, comparing one 
 
 with another, 
 Then you make known your desire, with 
 
 abrupt and sudden avowal, 
 And are offended and hurt, and indignant 
 
 perhaps, that a woman 
 Does not respond at once to a love that she 
 
 never suspected, 
 Does not attain at a bound the height to 
 
 which you have been climbing. 
 This is not right nor just: for surely a 
 
 woman's affection 
 Is not a thing to be asked for, and had for 
 
 only the asking. 
 When one is truly in love, one not only says 
 
 it, but shows it. 
 
36 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 Had he but waited awhile, had he only 
 
 showed that he loved me, 
 Even this Captain of yours — who knows? — 
 
 at last might have won me, 
 Old and rough as he is; but now it never can 
 
 happen." 
 
 Still John Alden went on, unheeding the 
 
 words of Priscilla, 
 Urging the suit of his friend, explaining, per- 
 suading, expanding; 
 Spoke of his courage and skill, and of all his 
 
 battles in Flanders, 
 How with the people of God he had chosen 
 
 to suffer affliction, 
 How, in return for his zeal, they had made 
 
 him Captain of Plymouth; 
 He was a gentleman born, could trace his 
 
 pedigree plainly 
 Back to Hugh Standish of Duxbury Hall, in 
 
 Lancashire, England, 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 37 
 
 Who was the son of Ralph, and the grandson 
 
 of Thurston de Standish; 
 Heir unto vast estates, of which he was basely 
 
 defrauded, 
 Still bore the family arms, and had for his 
 
 crest a cock argent 
 Combed and wattled gules, and all the rest of 
 
 the blazon. 
 He was a man of honor, of noble and gen- 
 erous nature; 
 Though he was rough, he was kindly; she 
 
 knew how during the winter 
 He had attended the sick, with a hand as 
 
 gentle as woman's; 
 Somewhat hasty and hot, he could not deny 
 
 it, and headstrong, 
 Stern as a soldier might be, but hearty, and 
 
 placable always, 
 Not to be laughed at and scorned, because he 
 
 was little of stature; 
 
 V 
 
38 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 For he was great of heart, magnanimous, 
 
 courtly, courageous; 
 Any woman in Plymouth, nay, any woman in 
 
 England, 
 Might be happy and proud to be called the 
 
 wife of Miles Standish! 
 
 But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple 
 
 and eloquent language, 
 Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise 
 
 of his rival, 
 Archly the maiden smiled, and, with eyes 
 
 overrunning with laughter, 
 Said, in a tremulous voice, "Why don't you 
 
 speak for yourself, John?" 
 
IV. 
 
 JOHN ALDEN. 
 
 Into the open air John Alden, perplexed and 
 
 bewildered, 
 Rushed like a man insane, and wandered 
 
 alone by the sea-side; 
 Paced up and down the sands, and bared his 
 
 head to the east-wind, 
 Cooling his heated brow, and the fire and 
 
 fever within him. 
 Slowly as out of the heavens, with apocalypti- 
 cal splendors, 
 Sank the City of God, in the vision of John 
 
 the Apostle, 
 So, with its cloudy walls of chrysolite, jasper, 
 
 and sapphire, 
 
 39 
 
40 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 
 
 Sank the broad red sun, and over its turrets 
 
 uplifted 
 Glimmered the golden reed of the angel who 
 
 measured the city. 
 
 "Welcome, O wind of the East!" he ex- 
 claimed in his wild exultation, 
 
 "Welcome, O wind of the East, from the 
 caves of the misty Atlantic ! 
 
 Blowing o'er fields of dulse, and measureless 
 meadows of sea-grass, 
 
 Blowing o'er rocky wastes, and the grottos 
 and gardens of ocean! 
 
 Lay thy cold, moist hand on my burning fore- 
 head, and wrap me 
 
 Close in thy garments of mist, to allay the 
 fever within me ! " 
 
 Like an awakened conscience, the sea was 
 moaning and tossing, 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 41 
 
 Beating remorseful and loud the mutable sands 
 
 of the sea-shore. 
 Fierce in his soul was the struggle and tumult 
 
 of passions contending; 
 Love triumphant and crowned, and friendship 
 
 wounded and bleeding, 
 Passionate cries of desire, and importunate 
 
 pleadings of duty! 
 "Is it my fault," he said, "that the maiden 
 
 has chosen between us? 
 Is it my fault that he failed, — my fault that I 
 
 am the victor?" 
 Then within him there thundered a voice, like 
 
 the voice of the Prophet: 
 "It hath displeased the Lord!" — and he 
 
 thought of David's transgression, 
 Bathsheba's beautiful face, and his friend in 
 
 the front of the battle! 
 Shame and confusion of guilt, and abasement 
 
 and self-condemnation, 
 
42 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 
 
 Overwhelmed him at once; and he cried in 
 
 the deepest contrition: 
 "It hath displeased the Lord! It is the 
 
 temptation of Satan ! " 
 
 Then, uplifting his head, he looked at the 
 
 sea, and beheld there 
 Dimly the shadowy form of the May Flower 
 
 riding at anchor, 
 Rocked on the rising tide, and ready to sail 
 
 on the morrow; 
 Heard the voices of men through the mist, the 
 
 rattle of cordage 
 Thrown on the deck, the shouts of the mate, 
 
 and the sailors' "Ay, ay, Sir!" 
 Clear and distinct, but not loud, in the drip- 
 ping air of the twilight. 
 Still for a moment he stood, and listened, 
 
 and stared at the vessel, 
 Then went hurriedly on, as one who, seeing 
 
 a phantom, 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 43 
 
 Stops, then quickens his pace, and follows the 
 
 beckoning shadow. 
 "Yes, it is plain to me now," he murmured; 
 
 "the hand of the Lord is 
 Leading me out of the land of darkness, the 
 
 bondage of error, 
 Through the sea, that shall lift the walls of its 
 
 waters around me, 
 Hiding me, cutting me off, from the cruel 
 
 thoughts that pursue me. 
 Back will I go o'er the ocean, this dreary land 
 
 will abandon, 
 Her whom I may not love, and him whom my 
 
 heart has offended. 
 Better to be in my grave in the green old 
 
 churchyard in England, 
 Close by my mother's side, and among the 
 
 dust of my kindred; 
 Better be dead and forgotten, than living in 
 
 shame and dishonor! 
 
44 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 Sacred and safe and unseen, in the dark of 
 
 the narrow chamber 
 With me my secret shall lie, like a buried 
 
 jewel that glimmers 
 Bright on the hand that is dust, in the 
 
 chambers of silence and darkness, — 
 Yes, as the marriage ring of the great espousal 
 
 hereafter! " 
 
 Thus as he spake, he turned, in the strength 
 
 of his strong resolution, 
 Leaving behind him the shore, and hurried 
 
 along in the twilight, 
 Through the congenial gloom of the forest 
 
 silent and sombre, 
 Till he beheld the lights in the seven houses 
 
 of Plymouth, 
 Shining like seven stars in the dusk and mist 
 
 of the evening. 
 Soon he entered his door, and found the 
 
 redoubtable Captain 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 45 
 
 Sitting alone, and absorbed in the martial 
 
 pages of Caesar, 
 Fighting some great campaign in Hainault or 
 
 Brabant or Flanders. 
 "Long have you been on your errand," he 
 
 said with a cheery demeanor, 
 Even as one who is waiting an answer, and 
 
 fears not the issue. 
 "Not far off is the house, although the woods 
 
 are between us; 
 But you have lingered so long, that while you 
 
 were going and coming 
 I have fought ten battles and sacked and 
 
 demolished a city. 
 Come, sit down, and in order relate to me all 
 that has happened." 
 
 Then John Alden spake, and related the 
 wondrous adventure, 
 From beginning to end, minutely, just as it 
 happened; 
 
46 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 How he had seen Priscilla, and how he had 
 sped in his courtship, 
 
 Only smoothing a little, and softening down 
 her refusal. 
 
 But when he came at length to the words 
 Priscilla had spoken, 
 
 Words so tender and cruel: "Why don't you 
 speak for yourself, John?" 
 
 Up leaped the Captain of Plymouth, and 
 stamped on the floor, till his armor 
 
 Clanged on the wall, where it hung, with a 
 sound of sinister omen. 
 
 All his pent-up wrath burst forth in a sudden 
 explosion, 
 
 Even as a hand-grenade, that scatters destruc- 
 tion around it. 
 
 Wildly he shouted, and loud: "John Alden! 
 you have betrayed me ! 
 
 Me, Miles Standish, your friend ! have sup- 
 planted, defrauded, betrayed me! 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAhlDISH. 47 
 
 One of my ancestors ran his sword through 
 
 the heart of Wat Tyler; 
 Who shall prevent me from running my own 
 
 through the heart of a traitor? 
 Yours is the greater treason, for yours is a 
 
 treason to friendship ! 
 You, who lived under my roof, whom I cher- 
 ished and loved as a brother; 
 You, who have fed at my board, and drunk 
 
 at my cup, to whose keeping 
 I have intrusted my honor, my thoughts the 
 
 most sacred and secret, — 
 You too, Brutus! ah woe to the name of 
 
 friendship hereafter! 
 Brutus was Caesar's friend, and you were mine, 
 
 but henceforward 
 Let there be nothing between us save war, and 
 
 implacable hatred!" 
 
48 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 
 
 So spake the Captain of Plymouth, and 
 strode about in the chamber, 
 
 Chafing and choking with rage; like cords 
 were the veins on his temples. 
 
 But in the midst of his anger a man appeared 
 at the doorway, 
 
 Bringing in uttermost haste a message of 
 urgent importance, 
 
 Rumors of danger and war and hostile incur- 
 sions of Indians! 
 
 Straightway the Captain paused, and, without 
 further question or parley, 
 
 Took from the nail on the wall his sword with 
 its scabbard of iron, 
 
 Buckled the belt round his waist, and, frown- 
 ing fiercely, departed. 
 
 Alden was left alone. He heard the clank of 
 the scabbard 
 
 Growing fainter and fainter, and dying away 
 in the distance. 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 49 
 
 Then he arose from his seat, and looked forth 
 
 into the darkness, 
 Felt the cool air blow on his cheek, that was 
 
 hot with the insult, 
 Lifted his eyes to the heavens, and, folding 
 
 his hands as in childhood, 
 Prayed in the silence of night to the Father 
 
 who seeth in secret. 
 
 Meanwhile the choleric Captain strode 
 wrathful away to the council, 
 
 Found it already assembled, impatiently wait- 
 ing his coming; 
 
 Men in the middle of life, austere and grave 
 in deportment, 
 
 Only one of them old, the hill that was near- 
 est to heaven, 
 
 Covered with snow, but erect, the excellent 
 Elder of Plymouth. 
 
 God had sifted three kingdoms to find the 
 wheat for this planting, 
 
50 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 Then had sifted the wheat, as the living seed 
 
 of a nation; 
 So say the chronicles old, and such is the 
 
 faith of the people! 
 Near them was standing an Indian, in attitude 
 
 stern and defiant, 
 Naked down to the waist, and grim and fero- 
 cious in aspect; 
 While on the table before them was lying 
 
 unopened a Bible, 
 Ponderous, bound in leather, brass-studded, 
 
 printed in Holland, 
 And beside it outstretched the skin of a 
 
 rattlesnake glittered, 
 Filled, like a quiver, with arrows; a signal 
 
 and challenge of warfare, 
 Brought by the Indian, and speaking with 
 
 arrowy tongues of defiance. 
 This Miles Standish beheld, as he entered, 
 
 and heard them debating 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 51 
 
 What were an answer befitting the hostile mes- 
 sage and menace, 
 
 Talking of this and of that, contriving, sug- 
 gesting, objecting; 
 
 One voice only for peace, and that the voice 
 of the Elder, 
 
 Judging it wise and well that some at least 
 were converted, 
 
 Rather than any were slain, for this was but 
 Christian behavior! 
 
 Then outspake Miles Standish, the stalwart 
 Captain of Plymouth, 
 
 Muttering deep in his throat, for his voice 
 was husky with anger, 
 
 "What! do you mean to make war with milk 
 and the water of roses? 
 
 Is it to shoot red squirrels you have your 
 howitzer planted 
 
 There on the roof of the church, or is it to 
 shoot red devils? 
 
52 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 Truly the only tongue that is understood by a 
 savage 
 
 Must be the tongue of fire that speaks from 
 the mouth of the cannon ! " 
 
 Thereupon answered and said the excellent 
 Elder of Plymouth, 
 
 Somewhat amazed and alarmed at this irrev- 
 erent language: 
 
 "Not so thought Saint Paul, nor yet the other 
 Apostles; 
 
 Not from the cannon's mouth were the 
 tongues of fire they spake with!" 
 
 But unheeded fell this mild rebuke on the 
 Captain, 
 
 Who had advanced to the table, and thus con- 
 tinued discoursing: 
 
 "Leave this matter to me, for to me by right 
 it pertaineth. 
 
 War is a terrible trade; but in the cause that 
 is righteous, 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 53 
 
 Sweet is the smell of powder; and thus I 
 answer the challenge!" 
 
 Then from the rattlesnake's skin, with a 
 sudden, contemptuous gesture, 
 
 Jerking the Indian arrows, he filled it with 
 powder and bullets 
 
 Full to the very jaws, and handed it back to 
 the savage, 
 
 Saying, in thundering tones: "Here, take it! 
 this is your answer! " 
 
 Silently out of the room then glided the glis- 
 tening savage, 
 
 Bearing the serpent's skin, and seeming him- 
 self like a serpent, 
 
 Winding his sinuous way in the dark to the 
 depths of the forest. 
 
V. 
 
 THE SAILING OF THE MAY FLOWER. 
 
 Just in the gray of the dawn, as the mists 
 
 uprose from the meadows, 
 There was a stir and a sound in the slumber- 
 ing village of Plymouth; 
 Clanging and clicking of arms, and the order 
 
 imperative, " Forward ! " 
 Given in tone suppressed, a tramp of feet, 
 
 and then silence. 
 Figures ten, in the mist, marched slowly out 
 
 of the village. 
 Standish the stalwart it was, with eight of his 
 
 valorous army, 
 Led by their Indian guide, by Hobomok, 
 
 friend of the white men, 
 54 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 55 
 
 Northward marching to quell the sudden revolt 
 
 of the savage. 
 Giants they seemed in the mist, or the mighty 
 
 men of King David; 
 Giants in heart they were, who believed in 
 
 God and the Bible, — 
 Ay, who believed in the smiting of Midianites 
 
 and Philistines. 
 Over them gleamed far off the crimson ban- 
 ners of morning; 
 Under them loud on the sands, the serried 
 
 billows, advancing, 
 Fired along the line, and in regular order 
 
 retreated. 
 
 Many a mile had they marched, when at 
 length the village of Plymouth 
 
 Woke from its sleep, and arose, intent on its 
 manifold labors. 
 
 Sweet was the air and soft; and slowly the 
 smoke from the chimneys 
 
56 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 Rose over roofs of thatch, and pointed 
 
 steadily eastward; 
 Men came forth from the doors, and paused 
 
 and talked of the weather, 
 Said that the wind had changed, and was 
 
 blowing fair for the May Flower; 
 Talked of their Captain's departure, and all 
 
 the dangers that menaced, 
 He being gone, the town, and what should be 
 
 done in his absence. 
 Merrily sang the birds, and the tender voices 
 
 of women 
 Consecrated with hymns the common cares of 
 
 the household. 
 Out of the sea rose the sun, and the billows 
 
 rejoiced at his coming; 
 Beautiful were his feet on the purple tops of 
 
 the mountains; 
 Beautiful on the sails of the May Flower rid- 
 ing at anchor, 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 57 
 
 Battered and blackened and worn by all the 
 
 storms of the winter. 
 Loosely against her masts was hanging and 
 
 flapping her canvas, 
 Rent by so many gales, and patched by the 
 
 hands of the sailors. 
 Suddenly from her side, as the sun rose over 
 
 the ocean, 
 Darted a puff of smoke, and floated seaward; 
 
 anon rang 
 Loud over field and forest the cannon's roar, 
 
 and the echoes 
 Heard and repeated the sound, the signal-gun 
 
 of departure ! 
 Ah! but with louder echoes replied the hearts 
 
 of the people ! 
 Meekly, in voices subdued, the chapter was 
 
 read from the Bible, 
 Meekly the prayer was begun, but ended in 
 
 fervent entreaty ! 
 
58 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 
 
 Then from their houses in haste came forth 
 
 the Pilgrims of Plymouth, 
 Men and women and children, all hurrying 
 
 down to the sea-shore, 
 Eager, with tearful eyes, to say farewell to the 
 
 May Flower, 
 Homeward bound o'er the sea, and leaving 
 
 them here in the desert. 
 
 Foremost among them was Alden. All night 
 
 he had lain without slumber, 
 Turning and tossing about in the heat and 
 
 unrest of his fever. 
 He had beheld Miles Standish, who came 
 
 back late from the council, 
 Stalking into the room, and heard him mutter 
 
 and murmur, 
 Sometimes it seemed a prayer, and sometimes 
 
 it sounded like swearing. 
 Once he had come to the bed, and stood 
 
 there a moment in silence; 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 59 
 
 Then he had turned away, and said: "I will 
 
 not awake him; 
 Let him sleep on, it is best; for what is the 
 
 use of more talking!" 
 Then he extinguished the light, and threw 
 
 himself down on his pallet, 
 Dressed as he was, and ready to start at the 
 
 break of the morning, — 
 Covered himself with the cloak he had worn 
 
 in his campaigns in Flanders, — 
 Slept as a soldier sleeps in his bivouac, ready 
 
 for action. 
 But with the dawn he arose; in the twilight 
 
 Alden beheld him 
 Put on his corslet of steel, and all the rest 
 
 of his armor, 
 Buckle about his waist his trusty blade of 
 
 Damascus, 
 Take from the corner his musket, and so 
 
 stride out of the chamber. 
 
60 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 Often the heart of the youth had burned and 
 
 yearned to embrace him, 
 Often his lips had essayed to speak, imploring 
 
 for pardon; 
 All the old friendship came back, with its 
 
 tender and grateful emotions; 
 But his pride overmastered the nobler nature 
 
 within him, — 
 Pride, and the sense of his wrong, and the 
 
 burning fire of the insult. 
 So he beheld his friend departing in anger, 
 
 but spake not, 
 Saw him go forth to danger, perhaps to death, 
 
 and he spake not! 
 Then he arose from his bed, and heard what 
 
 the people were saying, 
 Joined in the talk at the door, with Stephen 
 
 and Richard and Gilbert, 
 Joined in the morning prayer, and in the 
 
 reading of Scripture, 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAND1SH. 61 
 
 And, with the others, in haste went hurrying 
 
 down to the sea-shore, 
 Down to the Plymouth Rock, that had been 
 
 to their feet as a door-step 
 Into a world unknown, — the corner-stone of a 
 
 nation ! 
 
 There with his boat was the Master, already 
 a little impatient 
 Lest he should lose the tide, or the wind 
 
 might shift to the eastward, 
 Square-built, hearty, and strong, with an 
 
 odor of ocean about him, 
 Speaking with this one and that, and cram- 
 ming letters and parcels 
 Into his pockets capacious, and messages 
 
 mingled together 
 Into his narrow brain, till at last he was 
 
 wholly bewildered. 
 Nearer the boat stood Alden, with one foot 
 placed on the gunwale, 
 
62 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 One still firm on the rock, and talking at 
 
 times with the sailors, 
 Seated erect on the thwarts, all ready and 
 
 eager for starting. 
 He too was eager to go, and thus put an end 
 
 to his anguish, 
 Thinking to fly from despair, that swifter than 
 
 keel is or canvas, 
 Thinking to drown in the sea the ghost that 
 
 would rise and pursue him. 
 But as he gazed on the crowd, he beheld the 
 
 form of Priscilla 
 Standing dejected among them, unconscious of 
 
 all that was passing. 
 Fixed were her eyes upon his, as if she 
 
 divined his intention, 
 Fixed with a look so sad, so reproachful, 
 
 imploring, and patient, 
 That with a sudden revulsion his heart re- 
 coiled from its purpose, 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 63 
 
 As from the verge of a crag, where one step 
 
 more is destruction. 
 Strange is the heart of man, with its quick, 
 
 mysterious instincts ! 
 Strange is the life of man, and fatal or fated 
 
 are moments, 
 Whereupon turn, as on hinges, the gates of 
 
 the wall adamantine ! 
 "Here I remain!" he exclaimed, as he looked 
 
 at the heavens above him, 
 Thanking the Lord whose breath had scattered 
 
 the mist and the madness, 
 Wherein, blind and lost, to death he was 
 
 staggering headlong. 
 "Yonder snow-white cloud, that floats in the 
 
 ether above me, 
 Seems like a hand that is pointing and beck- 
 oning over the ocean. 
 There is another hand, that is not so spectral 
 
 and ghost-like. 
 
64 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 
 
 Holding me, drawing me back, and clasping 
 
 mine for protection. 
 Float, hand of cloud, and vanish away in 
 
 the ether! 
 Roll thyself up like a fist, to threaten and 
 
 daunt me; I heed not 
 Either your warning or menace, or any omen 
 
 of evil ! 
 There is no land so sacred, no air so pure 
 
 and so wholesome, 
 As is the air she breathes, and the soil that 
 
 is pressed by her footsteps. 
 Here for her sake will I stay, and like an 
 
 invisible presence 
 Hover around her for ever, protecting, sup- 
 porting her weakness; 
 Yes! as my foot was the first that stepped on 
 
 this rock at the landing, 
 So, with the blessing of God, shall it be the 
 
 last at the leaving ! " 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH Q5 
 
 Meanwhile the Master alert, but with dig- 
 nified air and important, 
 Scanning with watchful eye the tide and the 
 
 wind and the weather, 
 Walked about on the sands; and the people 
 
 crowded around him 
 Saying a few last words, and enforcing his 
 
 careful remembrance. 
 Then, taking each by the hand, as if he were 
 
 grasping a tiller, 
 Into the boat he sprang, and in haste shoved 
 
 off to his vessel, 
 Glad in his heart to get rid of all this worry 
 
 and flurry, 
 Glad to be gone from a land of sand and 
 
 sickness and sorrow, 
 Short allowance of victual, and plenty of 
 
 nothing but Gospel! 
 Lost in the sound of the oars was the last 
 
 farewell of the Pilgrims. 
 
66 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 O strong hearts and true! not one went back 
 
 in the May Flower! 
 No, not one looked back, who had set his 
 
 hand to this ploughing! 
 
 Soon were heard on board the shouts and 
 
 songs of the sailors 
 Heaving the windlass round, and hoisting the 
 
 ponderous anchor. 
 Then the yards were braced, and all sails set 
 
 to the west-wind, 
 Blowing steady and strong; and the May 
 
 Flower sailed from the harbor, 
 Rounded the point of the Gurnet, and leaving 
 
 far to the southward 
 Island and cape of sand, and the Field of the 
 
 First Encounter, 
 Took the wind on her quarter, and stood for 
 
 the open Atlantic, 
 Borne on the send of the sea, and the swell- 
 ing hearts of the Pilgrims. 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 67 
 
 Long in silence they watched the receding 
 
 sail of the vessel, 
 Much endeared to them all, as something 
 
 living and human; 
 Then, as if filled with the spirit, and wrapt 
 
 in a vision prophetic, 
 Baring his hoary head, the excellent Elder of 
 
 Plymouth 
 Said, " Let us pray ! " and they prayed, and 
 
 thanked the Lord and took courage. 
 Mournfully sobbed the waves at the base of 
 
 the rock, and above them 
 Bowed and whispered the wheat on the hill of 
 
 death, and their kindred 
 Seemed to awake in their graves, and to join 
 
 in the prayer that they uttered. 
 Sun-illumined and white, on the eastern verge 
 
 of the ocean 
 Gleamed the departing sail, like a marble slab 
 
 in a graveyard; 
 
68 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 
 
 Buried beneath it lay for ever all hope of 
 
 escaping. 
 Lo! as they turned to depart, they saw the 
 
 form of an Indian, 
 Watching them from the hill; but while they 
 
 spake with each other, 
 Pointing with outstretched hands, and saying, 
 
 " Look ! " he had vanished. 
 So they returned to their homes; but Alden 
 
 lingered a little, 
 Musing alone on the shore, and watching the 
 
 wash of the billows 
 Round the base of the rock, and the sparkle 
 
 and flash of the sunshine, 
 Like the spirit of God, moving visibly over 
 
 the waters. 
 
VI. 
 
 PRISCILLA. 
 
 Thus for a while he stood, and mused by the 
 
 shore of the ocean, 
 Thinking of many things, and most of all of 
 
 Priscilla; 
 And as if thought had the power to draw to 
 
 itself, like the loadstone, 
 Whatsoever it touches, by subtile laws of its 
 
 nature, 
 Lo! as he turned to depart, Priscilla was 
 
 standing beside him. 
 
 "Are you so much offended, you will not 
 speak to me?" said she. 
 "Am I so much to blame, that yesterday, 
 when you were pleading 
 
70 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 Warmly the cause of another, my heart, im- 
 pulsive and wayward, 
 Pleaded your own, and spake out, forgetful 
 
 perhaps of decorum? 
 Certainly you can forgive me for speaking so 
 
 frankly, for saying 
 What I ought not to have said, yet now I can 
 
 never unsay it; 
 For there are moments in life, when the heart 
 
 is so full of emotion, 
 That if by chance it be shaken, or into its 
 
 depths like a pebble 
 Drops some careless word, it overflows, and 
 
 its secret, 
 Spilt on the ground like water, can never be 
 
 gathered together. 
 Yesterday I was shocked, when I heard you 
 
 speak of Miles Standish, 
 Praising his virtues, transforming his very 
 
 defects into virtues, 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 71 
 
 Praising his courage and strength, and even 
 
 his righting in Flanders, 
 As if by righting alone you could win the 
 
 heart of a woman, 
 Quite overlooking yourself and the rest, in 
 
 exalting your hero. 
 Therefore I spake as I did, by an irresistible 
 
 impulse. 
 You will forgive me, I hope, for the sake of 
 
 the friendship between us, 
 Which is too true and too sacred to be so 
 
 easily broken ! " 
 Thereupon answered John Alden, the scholar, 
 
 the friend of Miles Standish: 
 "I was not angry with you, with myself alone 
 
 I was angry, 
 Seeing how badly I managed the matter I had 
 
 in my keeping." 
 "No!" interrupted the maiden, with answer 
 
 prompt and decisive ; 
 
72 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 "No; you were angry with me, for speaking 
 
 so frankly and freely. 
 It was wrong, I acknowledge; for it is the 
 
 fate of a woman 
 Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a 
 
 ghost that is speechless, 
 Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell 
 
 of its silence. 
 Hence is the inner life of so many suffering 
 
 women 
 Sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean 
 
 rivers 
 Running through caverns of darkness, un- 
 heard, unseen, and unfruitful, 
 Charing their channels of stone, with endless 
 
 and profitless murmurs." 
 Thereupon answered John Alden, the young 
 
 man, the lover of women: 
 "Heaven forbid it, Priscilla; and truly they 
 
 seem to me always 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 73 
 
 More like the beautiful rivers that watered the 
 
 garden of Eden, 
 More like the river Euphrates, through deserts 
 
 of Havilah flowing, 
 Filling the land with delight, and memories 
 
 sweet of the garden ! " 
 "Ah, by these words, I can see," again inter- 
 rupted the maiden, 
 "How very little you prize me, or care for 
 
 what I am saying. 
 When from the depths of my heart, in pain 
 
 and with secret misgiving, 
 Frankly I speak to you, asking for sympathy 
 
 only and kindness, 
 Straightway you take up my words, that are 
 
 plain and direct and in earnest, 
 Turn them away from their meaning, and 
 
 answer with flattering phrases. 
 This is not right, is not just, is not true to 
 
 the best that is in you; 
 
74 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 
 
 For I know and esteem you, and feel that 
 your nature is noble, 
 
 Lifting mine up to a higher, a more ethereal 
 level. 
 
 Therefore I value your friendship, and feel it 
 perhaps the more keenly 
 
 If you say aught that implies I am only as 
 one among many, 
 
 If you make use of those common and com- 
 plimentary phrases 
 
 Most men think so fine, in dealing and speak- 
 ing with women, 
 
 But which women reject as insipid, if not as 
 insulting." 
 
 Mute and amazed was Alden; and listened 
 
 and looked at Priscilla, 
 Thinking he never had seen her more fair, 
 
 more divine in her beauty. 
 He who but yesterday pleaded so glibly the 
 
 cause of another, 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 75 
 
 Stood there embarrassed and silent, and seek- 
 ing in vain for an answer. 
 So the maiden went on, and little divined or 
 
 imagined 
 What was at work in his heart, that made him 
 
 so awkward and speechless. 
 "Let us, then, be what we are, and speak 
 
 what we think, and in all things 
 Keep ourselves loyal to truth, and the sacred 
 
 professions of friendship. 
 It is no secret I tell you, nor am I ashamed 
 
 to declare it: 
 I have liked to be with you, to see you, to 
 
 speak with you always. 
 So I was hurt at your words, and a little 
 
 affronted to hear you 
 Urge me to marry your friend, though he were 
 
 the Captain Miles Standish. 
 For I must tell you the truth: much more to 
 
 me is your friendship 
 
76 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 Than all the love he could give, were he 
 twice the hero you think him." 
 
 Then she extended her hand, and Alden, who 
 eagerly grasped it, 
 
 Felt all the wounds in his heart, that were 
 aching and bleeding so sorely, 
 
 Healed by the touch of that hand, and he 
 said with a voice full of feeling: 
 
 "Yes, we must ever be friends; and of all 
 who offer you friendship 
 
 Let me be ever the first, the truest, the near- 
 est and dearest ! " 
 
 Casting a farewell look at the glimmering 
 
 sail of the May Flower, 
 Distant, but still in sight, and sinking below 
 
 the horizon, 
 Homeward together they walked, with a 
 
 strange, indefinite feeling, 
 That all the rest had departed and left them 
 
 alone in the desert. 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAND1SH. 77 
 
 But, as they went through the fields in the 
 
 blessing and smile of the sunshine, 
 Lighter grew their hearts, and Priscilla said 
 
 very archly: 
 "Now that our terrible Captain has gone in 
 
 pursuit of the Indians, 
 Where he is happier far than he would be 
 
 commanding a household, 
 You may speak boldly, and tell me of all that 
 
 happened between you, 
 When you returned last night, and said how 
 
 ungrateful you found me." 
 Thereupon answered John Alden, and told her 
 
 the whole of the story, — 
 Told her his own despair, and the direful 
 
 wrath of Miles Standish. 
 Whereat the maiden smiled, and said between 
 
 laughing and earnest, 
 "He is a little chimney, and heated hot in a 
 moment ! " 
 
78 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH, 
 
 But as he gently rebuked her, and told her 
 
 how much he had suffered, — 
 How he had even determined to sail that day 
 
 in the May Flower, 
 And had remained for her sake, on hearing 
 
 the dangers that threatened, — 
 All her manner was changed, and she said 
 
 with a faltering accent, 
 "Truly I thank you for this: how good you 
 
 have been to me always!" 
 
 Thus, as a pilgrim devout, who toward Jeru- 
 salem journeys, 
 
 Taking three steps in advance, and one reluc- 
 tantly backward, 
 
 Urged by importunate zeal, and withheld by 
 pangs of contrition; 
 
 Slowly but steadily onward, receding yet ever 
 advancing, 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 79 
 
 Journeyed this Puritan youth to the Holy Land 
 
 of his longings, 
 Urged by the fervor of love, and withheld by 
 
 remorseful misgivings. 
 
VII. 
 
 THE MARCH OF MILES STANDISH. 
 
 Meanwhile the stalwart Miles Standish was 
 marching steadily northward, 
 
 Winding through forest and swamp, and along 
 the trend of the sea-shore, 
 
 All day long, with hardly a halt, the fire of 
 his anger 
 
 Burning and crackling within, and the sul- 
 phurous odor of powder 
 
 Seeming more sweet to his nostrils than all the 
 scents of the forest. 
 
 Silent and moody he went, and much he re- 
 volved his discomfort; 
 
 He who was used to success, and to easy vic- 
 tories always, 
 
 80 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 81 
 
 Thus to be flouted, rejected, and laughed to 
 
 scorn by a maiden, 
 Thus to be mocked and betrayed by the friend 
 
 whom most he had trusted! 
 Ah! 'twas too much to be borne, and he 
 
 fretted and chafed in his armor! 
 
 "I alone am to blame," he muttered, "for 
 
 mine was the folly. 
 What has a rough old soldier, grown grim 
 
 and gray in the harness, 
 Used to the camp and its ways, to do with 
 
 the wooing of maidens? 
 'T was but a dream, — let it pass, — let it van- 
 ish like so many others! 
 What I thought was a flower, is only a weed, 
 
 and is worthless; 
 Out of my heart will I pluck it, and throw it 
 
 away, and henceforward 
 Be but a fighter of battles, a lover and wooer 
 
 of dangers! " 
 
82 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 Thus he revolved in his mind his sorry defeat 
 
 and discomfort, 
 While he was marching by day or lying at 
 
 night in the forest, 
 Looking up at the trees, and the constellations 
 
 beyond them. 
 
 After a three days' march he came to an 
 
 Indian encampment 
 Pitched on the edge of a meadow, between 
 
 the sea and the forest; 
 Women at work by the tents, and the war- 
 riors, horrid with war-paint, 
 Seated about a fire, and smoking and talking 
 
 together; 
 Who, when they saw from afar the sudden 
 
 approach of the white men, 
 Saw the flash of the sun on breastplate and 
 
 sabre and musket, 
 Straightway leaped to their feet, and two, from 
 
 among them advancing, 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 83 
 
 Came to parley with Standish, and offer him 
 
 furs as a present; 
 Friendship was in their looks, but in their 
 
 hearts there was hatred. 
 Braves of the tribe were these, and brothers 
 
 gigantic in stature, 
 Huge as Goliath of Gath, or the terrible Og, 
 
 king of Bashan; 
 One was Pecksuot named, and the other was 
 
 called Wattawamat. 
 Round their necks were suspended their knives 
 
 in scabbards of wampum, 
 Two-edged, trenchant knives, with points as 
 
 sharp as a needle. 
 Other arms had they none, for they were cun- 
 ning and crafty. 
 "Welcome, English!" they said, —these words 
 
 they had learned from the traders 
 Touching at times on the coast, to barter and 
 
 chaffer for peltries. 
 
84 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 Then in their native tongue they began to 
 
 parley with Standish, 
 Through his guide and interpreter, Hobomok, 
 
 friend of the white man, 
 Begging for blankets and knives, but mostly 
 
 for muskets and powder, 
 Kept by the white man, they said, concealed, 
 
 with the plague, in his cellars, 
 Ready to be let loose, and destroy his brother 
 
 the red man! 
 But when Standish refused, and said he would 
 
 give them the Bible, 
 Suddenly changing their tone, they began to 
 
 boast and to bluster. 
 Then Wattawamat advanced with a stride in 
 
 front of the other, 
 And, with a lofty demeanor, thus vauntingly 
 
 spake to the Captain : 
 "Now Wattawamat can see, by the fiery eyes 
 
 of the Captain, 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 85 
 
 Angry is he in his heart; but the heart of the 
 
 brave Wattawamat 
 Is not afraid at the sight. He was not born 
 
 of a woman, 
 But on a mountain, at night, from an oak- 
 tree riven by lightning, 
 Forth he sprang at a bound, with all his 
 
 weapons about him, 
 Shouting, 'Who is there here to fight with 
 
 the brave Wattawamat? ' " 
 Then he unsheathed his knife, and, whetting 
 
 the blade on his left hand, 
 Held it aloft and displayed a woman's face 
 
 on the handle, 
 Saying, with bitter expression and look of 
 
 sinister meaning: 
 "I have another at home, with the face of a 
 
 man on the handle; 
 By and by they shall marry; and there will be 
 
 plenty of children!" 
 
86 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 Then stood Pecksuot forth, self-vaunting, 
 
 insulting Miles Standish: 
 While with his fingers he patted the knife that 
 
 hung at his bosom, 
 Drawing it half from its sheath, and plunging 
 
 it back, as he muttered, 
 "By and by it shall see; it shall eat; ah, ha! 
 
 but shall speak not! 
 This is the mighty Captain the white men 
 
 have sent to destroy us! 
 He is a little man; let him go and work with 
 
 the women! " 
 
 Meanwhile Standish had noted the faces and 
 
 figures of Indians 
 Peeping and creeping about from bush to tree 
 
 in the forest, 
 Feigning to look for game, with arrows set on 
 
 their bow-strings, 
 Drawing about him still closer and closer the 
 
 net of their ambush. 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 87 
 
 But undaunted he stood, and dissembled and 
 
 treated them smoothly; 
 So the old chronicles say, that were writ in 
 
 the days of the fathers. 
 But when he heard their defiance, the boast, 
 
 the taunt, and the insult, 
 All the hot blood of his race, of Sir Hugh 
 
 and of Thurston de Standish, 
 Boiled and beat in his heart, and swelled in 
 
 the veins of his temples. 
 Headlong he leaped on the boaster, and, 
 
 snatching his knife from its scabbard, 
 Plunged it into his heart, and, reeling back- 
 ward, the savage 
 Fell with his face to the sky, and a fiendlike 
 
 fierceness upon it. 
 Straight there arose from the forest the awful 
 
 sound of the war-whoop, 
 And, like a flurry of snow on the whistling 
 
 wind of December, 
 
88 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 Swift and sudden and keen came a flight of 
 
 feathery arrows. 
 Then came a cloud of smoke, and out of the 
 
 cloud came the lightning, 
 Out of the lightning thunder; and death 
 
 unseen ran before it. 
 Frightened the savages fled for shelter in 
 
 swamp and in thicket, 
 Hotly pursued and beset; but their sachem, 
 
 the brave Wattawamat, 
 Fled not; he was dead. Unswerving and swift 
 
 had a bullet 
 Passed through his brain, and he fell with 
 
 both hands clutching the greensward, 
 Seeming in death to hold back from his foe 
 
 the land of his fathers. 
 
 There on the flowers of the meadow the 
 warriors lay, and above them, 
 Silent, with folded arms, stood Hobomok, 
 friend of the white man. 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 89 
 
 Smiling at length he exclaimed to the stalwart 
 Captain of Plymouth: 
 
 "Pecksuot bragged very loud, of his courage, 
 his strength, and his stature,— 
 
 Mocked the great Captain, and called him a 
 little man; but I see now 
 
 Big enough have you been to lay him speech- 
 less before you!" 
 
 Thus the first battle was fought and won by 
 
 the stalwart Miles Standish. 
 When the tidings thereof were brought to the 
 
 village of Plymouth, 
 And as a trophy of war the head of the brave 
 
 Wattawamat 
 Scowled from the roof of the fort, which at 
 
 once was a church and a fortress, 
 All who beheld it rejoiced, and praised the 
 
 Lord, and took courage. 
 Only Priscilla averted her face from this 
 
 spectre of terror, 
 
90 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 
 
 Thanking God in her heart that she had not 
 
 married Miles Standish; 
 Shrinking, fearing almost, lest, coming home 
 
 from his battles, 
 He should lay claim to her hand, as the prize 
 
 and reward of his valor. 
 
VIII. 
 
 THE SPINNING-WHEEL. 
 
 Month after month passed away, and in 
 Autumn the ships of the merchants 
 
 Came with kindred and friends, with cattle 
 and corn for the Pilgrims. 
 
 All in the village was peace; the men were 
 intent on their labors, 
 
 Busy with hewing and building, with garden- 
 plot and with merestead, 
 
 Busy with breaking the glebe, and mowing the 
 grass in the meadows, 
 
 Searching the sea for its fish, and hunting the 
 deer in the forest. 
 
 All in the village was peace; but at times the 
 rumor of warfare 
 
 91 
 
92 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 Filled the air with alarm, and the apprehen- 
 sion of danger. 
 
 Bravely the stalwart Miles Standi sh was scour- 
 ing the land with his forces, 
 
 Waxing valiant in fight and defeating the alien 
 armies, 
 
 Till his name had become a sound of fear to 
 the nations. 
 
 Anger was still in his heart, but at times the 
 remorse and contrition 
 
 Which in all noble natures succeed the pas- 
 sionate outbreak, 
 
 Came like a rising tide, that encounters the 
 rush of a river, 
 
 Staying its current awhile, but making it bitter 
 and brackish. 
 
 Meanwhile Alden at home had built him a 
 new habitation, 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAND1SH. 93 
 
 Solid, substantial, of timber rough-hewn from 
 
 the firs of the forest. 
 Wooden-barred was the door, and the roof 
 
 was covered with rushes; 
 Latticed the windows were, and the window- 
 panes were of paper, 
 Oiled to admit the light, while wind and rain 
 
 were excluded. 
 There too he dug a well, and around it 
 
 planted an orchard: 
 Still may be seen to this day some trace of 
 
 the well and the orchard. 
 Close to the house was the stall, where, safe 
 
 and secure from annoyance, 
 Raghorn, the snow-white steer, that had fallen 
 
 to Alden's allotment 
 In the division of cattle, might ruminate in 
 
 the night-time 
 Over the pastures he cropped, made fragrant 
 by sweet pennyroyal. 
 
94 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 
 
 Oft when his labor was finished, with eager 
 feet would the dreamer 
 
 Follow the pathway that ran through the 
 woods to the house of Priscilla, 
 
 Led by illusions romantic and subtile decep- 
 tions of fancy, 
 
 Pleasure disguised as duty, and love in the 
 semblance of friendship. 
 
 Ever of her he thought, when he fashioned 
 the walls of his dwelling; 
 
 Ever of her he thought, when he delved in the 
 soil of his garden; 
 
 Ever of her he thought, when he read in his 
 Bible on Sunday 
 
 Praise of the virtuous woman, as she is de- 
 scribed in the Proverbs, — 
 
 How the heart of her husband doth safely 
 trust in her always, 
 
 How all the days of her life she will do him 
 good, and not evil, 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 95 
 
 How she seeketh the wool and the flax and 
 
 worketh with gladness, 
 How she layeth her hand to the spindle and 
 
 holdeth the distaff, 
 How she is not afraid of the snow for herself 
 
 or her household, 
 Knowing her household are clothed with the 
 
 scarlet cloth of her weaving! 
 
 So as she sat at her wheel one afternoon in 
 the Autumn, 
 
 Alden, who opposite sat, and was watching 
 her dexterous fingers, 
 
 As if the thread she was spinning were that of 
 his life and his fortune, 
 
 After a pause in their talk, thus spake to the 
 sound of the spindle. 
 
 "Truly, Priscilla," he said, "when I see you 
 spinning and spinning, 
 
 Never idle a moment, but thrifty and thought- 
 ful of others, 
 
96 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 Suddenly you are transformed, are visibly 
 
 changed in a moment; 
 You are no longer Priscilla, but Bertha the 
 
 Beautiful Spinner." 
 Here the light foot on the treadle grew swifter 
 
 and swifter; the spindle 
 Uttered an angry snarl, and the thread 
 
 snapped short in her fingers; 
 While the impetuous speaker, not heeding the 
 
 mischief, continued : 
 "You are the beautiful Bertha, the spinner, 
 
 the queen of Helvetia; 
 She whose story I read at a stall in the streets 
 
 of Southampton, 
 Who, as she rode on her palfrey, o'er valley 
 
 and meadow and mountain, 
 Ever was spinning her thread from a distaff 
 
 fixed to her saddle. 
 She was so thrifty and good, that her name 
 
 passed into a proverb. 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 97 
 
 So shall it be with your own, when the spin- 
 ning-wheel shall no longer 
 
 Hum in the house of the farmer, and fill its 
 chambers with music. 
 
 Then shall the mothers, reproving, relate how 
 it was in their childhood, 
 
 Praising the good old times, and the days of 
 Priscilla the spinner!" 
 
 Straight uprose from her wheel the beautiful 
 Puritan maiden, 
 
 Pleased with the praise of her thrift from him 
 whose praise was the sweetest, 
 
 Drew from the reel on the table a snowy skein 
 of her spinning, 
 
 Thus making answer, meanwhile, to the flatter- 
 ing phrases of Alden: 
 
 "Come, you must not be idle; if I am a pat- 
 tern for housewives, 
 
 Show yourself equally worthy of being the 
 model of husbands. 
 
98 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 Hold this skein on your hands, while I wind 
 it, ready for knitting; 
 
 Then who knows but hereafter, when fashions 
 have changed and the manners, 
 
 Fathers may talk to their sons of the good old 
 times of John Alden!" 
 
 Thus, with a jest and a laugh, the skein on 
 his hands she adjusted, 
 
 He sitting awkwardly there, with his arms ex- 
 tended before him, 
 
 She standing graceful, erect, and winding the 
 thread from his fingers, 
 
 Sometimes chiding a little his clumsy manner 
 of holding, 
 
 Sometimes touching his hands, as she disen- 
 tangled expertly 
 
 Twist or knot in the yarn, unawares — for how 
 could she help it? — 
 
 Sending electrical thrills through every nerve 
 in his body. 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 99 
 
 Lo! in the midst of this scene, a breathless 
 messenger entered, 
 Bringing in hurry and heat the terrible news 
 
 from the village. 
 Yes; Miles Standish was dead! — an Indian 
 
 had brought them the tidings, — 
 Slain by a poisoned arrow, shot down in the 
 
 front of the battle, 
 Into an ambush beguiled, cut off with the 
 
 whole of his forces; 
 All the town would be burned, and all the 
 
 people be murdered! 
 Such were the tidings of evil that burst on the 
 
 hearts of the hearers. 
 Silent and statue-like stood Priscilla, her face 
 
 looking backward 
 Still at the face of the speaker, her arms up- 
 lifted in horror; 
 But John Alden, upstarting, as if the barb of 
 the arrow 
 
100 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 
 
 Piercing the heart of his friend had struck his 
 
 own, and had sundered 
 Once and for ever the bonds that held him 
 
 bound as a captive, 
 While with excess of sensation, the awful de- 
 light of his freedom, 
 Mingled with pain and regret, unconscious of 
 
 what he was doing, 
 Clasped, almost with a groan, the motionless 
 
 form of Priscilla, 
 Pressing her close to his heart, as for ever his 
 
 own, and exclaiming: 
 "Those whom the Lord hath united, let no 
 
 man put them asunder ! " 
 
 Even as rivulets twain, from distant and 
 
 separate sources, 
 Seeing each other afar, as they leap from the 
 
 rocks, and pursuing 
 Each one its devious path, but drawing nearer 
 
 and nearer, 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 101 
 
 Rush together at last, at their trysting-place in 
 the forest; 
 
 So these lives that had run thus far in sepa- 
 rate channels, 
 
 Coming in sight of each other, then swerving 
 and flowing asunder, 
 
 Parted by barriers strong, but drawing nearer 
 and nearer, 
 
 Rushed together at last, and one was lost in the 
 other. 
 
IX. 
 
 THE WEDDING-DAY. 
 
 Forth from the curtain of clouds, from the 
 
 tent of purple and scarlet, 
 Issued the sun, the great High-Priest, in his 
 
 garments resplendent, 
 Holiness unto the Lord, in letters of light, on 
 
 his forehead, 
 Round the hem of his robe the golden bells 
 
 and pomegranates. 
 Blessing the world he came, and the bars of 
 
 vapor beneath him 
 Gleamed like a grate of brass, and the sea at 
 
 his feet was a laver! 
 102 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 103 
 
 This was the wedding morn of Priscilla the 
 
 Puritan maiden. 
 Friends were assembled together; the Elder 
 
 and Magistrate also 
 Graced the scene with their presence, and 
 
 stood like the Law and the Gospel, 
 One with the sanction of earth and one with 
 
 the blessing of heaven. 
 Simple and brief was the wedding, as that of 
 
 Ruth and of Boaz. 
 Softly the youth and the maiden repeated the 
 
 words of betrothal, 
 Taking each other for husband and wife in the 
 
 Magistrate's presence, 
 After the Puritan way, and the laudable cus- 
 tom of Holland. 
 Fervently then, and devoutly, the excellent 
 
 Elder of Plymouth 
 Prayed for the hearth and the home, that were 
 
 founded that day in affection, 
 
104 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 
 
 Speaking of life and of death, and imploring 
 divine benedictions. 
 
 Lo! when the service was ended, a form 
 appeared on the threshold, 
 
 Clad in armor of steel, a sombre and sor- 
 rowful figure ! 
 
 Why does the bridegroom start and stare at 
 the strange apparition? 
 
 Why does the bride turn pale, and hide her 
 face on his shoulder? 
 
 Is it a phantom of air, — a bodiless, spectral 
 illusion? 
 
 Is it a ghost from the grave, that has come to 
 forbid the betrothal? 
 
 Long had it stood there unseen, a guest unin- 
 vited, unwelcomed; 
 
 Over its clouded eyes there had passed at 
 times an expression 
 
 Softening the gloom and revealing the warm 
 heart hidden beneath them, 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 105 
 
 As when across the sky the driving rack of 
 
 the rain-cloud 
 Grows for a moment thin, and betrays the sun 
 
 by its brightness. 
 Once it had lifted its hand, and moved its 
 
 lips, but was silent, 
 As if an iron will had mastered the fleeting 
 
 intention. 
 But when were ended the troth and the prayer 
 
 and the last benediction, 
 Into the room it strode, and the people beheld 
 
 with amazement 
 Bodily there in his armor Miles Standish, the 
 
 Captain of Plymouth ! 
 Grasping the bridegroom's hand, he said with 
 
 emotion, " Forgive me ! 
 I have been angry and hurt, — too long have I 
 
 cherished the feeling; 
 I have been cruel and hard, but now, thank 
 
 God ! it is ended. 
 
106 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH 
 
 Mine is the same hot blood that leaped in the 
 
 veins of Hugh Standish, 
 Sensitive, swift to resent, but as swift in aton- 
 ing for error. 
 Never so much as now was Miles Standish the 
 
 friend of John Alden." 
 Thereupon answered the bridegroom : " Let all 
 
 be forgotten between us, — 
 All save the dear, old friendship, and that 
 
 shall grow older and dearer!" 
 Then the Captain advanced, and, bowing, 
 
 saluted Priscilla, 
 Gravely, and after the manner of old-fashioned 
 
 gentry in England, 
 Something of camp and of court, of town and 
 
 of country, commingled, 
 Wishing her joy of her wedding, and loudly 
 
 lauding her husband. 
 Then he said with a smile: "I should have 
 
 remembered the adage, — 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 107 
 
 If you would be well served, you must serve 
 
 yourself; and moreover, 
 No man can gather cherries in Kent at the 
 
 season of Christmas ! " 
 
 Great was the people's amazement, and 
 
 greater yet their rejoicing, 
 Thus to behold once more the sun-burnt face 
 
 of their Captain, 
 Whom they had mourned as dead; and they 
 
 gathered and crowded about him, 
 Eager to see him and hear him, forgetful of 
 
 bride and of bridegroom, 
 Questioning, answering, laughing, and each 
 
 interrupting the other, 
 Till the good Captain declared, being quite 
 
 overpowered and bewildered, 
 He had rather by far break into an Indian 
 
 encampment, 
 Than come again to a wedding to which he 
 
 had not been invited. 
 
108 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 
 
 Meanwhile the bridegroom went forth and 
 
 stood with the bride at the doorway, 
 Breathing the perfumed air of that warm and 
 
 beautiful morning. 
 Touched with autumnal tints, but lonely and 
 
 sad in the sunshine, 
 Lay extended before them the land of toil 
 
 and privation; 
 There were the graves of the dead, and the 
 
 barren waste of the sea-shore, 
 There the familiar fields, the groves of pine, 
 
 and the meadows; 
 But to their eyes transfigured, it seemed as the 
 
 Garden of Eden, 
 Filled with the presence of God, whose voice 
 
 was the sound of the ocean. 
 
 Soon was their vision disturbed by the noise 
 and stir of departure, 
 Friends coming forth from the house, and im- 
 patient of longer delaying, 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 109 
 
 Each with his plan for the day, and the work 
 
 that was left uncompleted. 
 Then from a stall near at hand, amid excla- 
 mations of wonder, 
 Alden the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, 
 
 so proud of Priscilla, 
 Brought out his snow-white steer, obeying the 
 
 hand of its master, 
 Led by a cord that was tied to an iron ring 
 
 in its nostrils, 
 Covered with crimson cloth, and a cushion 
 
 placed for a saddle. 
 She should not walk, he said, through the 
 
 dust and heat of the noonday; 
 Nay, she should ride like a queen, not plod 
 
 along like a peasant. 
 Somewhat alarmed at first, but reassured by 
 
 the others, 
 Placing her hand on the cushion, her foot in 
 
 the hand of her husband, 
 
110 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 
 
 Gayly, with joyous laugh, Priscilla mounted 
 
 her palfrey. 
 "Nothing is wanting now," he said with a 
 
 smile, "but the distaff; 
 Then you would be in truth my queen, my 
 
 beautiful Bertha!" 
 
 Onward the bridal procession now moved to 
 their new habitation, 
 
 Happy husband and wife, and friends convers- 
 ing together. 
 
 Pleasantly murmured the brook, as they 
 crossed the ford in the forest, 
 
 Pleased with the image that passed, like a 
 dream of love through its bosom, 
 
 Tremulous, floating in air, o'er the depths of 
 the azure abysses. 
 
 Down through the golden leaves the sun was 
 pouring his splendors, 
 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. Ill 
 
 Gleaming on purple grapes, that, from 
 branches above them suspended, 
 
 Mingled their odorous breath with the balm 
 of the pine and the fir-tree, 
 
 Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in 
 the valley of Eshcol. 
 
 Like a picture it seemed of the primitive, 
 pastoral ages, 
 
 Fresh with the youth of the world, and recall- 
 ing Rebecca and Isaac, 
 
 Old and yet ever new, and simple and beauti- 
 ful always, 
 
 Love immortal and young in the endless suc- 
 cession of lovers. 
 
 So through the Plymouth woods passed onward 
 the bridal procession. 
 
BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 
 
 . . . come i gru van cantando lor lai, 
 Facendo in aer di se lunga riga. 
 
 Dante. 
 
PROMETHEUS, 
 
 OR THE POET'S FORETHOUGHT. 
 
 Of Prometheus, how undaunted 
 On Olympus' shining bastions 
 His audacious foot he planted, 
 Myths are told and songs are chaunted, 
 Full of promptings and suggestions. 
 
 Beautiful is the tradition 
 
 Of that flight through heavenly portals, 
 The old classic superstition 
 Of the theft and the transmission 
 
 Of the fire of the Immortals! 
 
 First the deed of noble daring, 
 Born of heavenward aspiration, 
 115 
 
116 PROMETHEUS. 
 
 Then the fire with mortals sharing, 
 
 Then the vulture, — the despairing 
 
 Cry of pain on crags Caucasian. 
 
 All is but a symbol painted 
 
 Of the Poet, Prophet, Seer; 
 Only those are crowned and sainted 
 Who with grief have been acquainted, 
 
 Making nations nobler, freer. 
 
 In their feverish exultations, 
 
 In their triumph and their yearning, 
 In their passionate pulsations, 
 In their words among the nations, 
 The Promethean fire is burning. 
 
 Shall it, then, be unavailing, 
 
 All this toil for human culture? 
 Through the cloud-rack, dark and trailing, 
 Must they see above them sailing 
 O'er life's barren crags the vulture? 
 
PROMETHEUS. 117 
 
 Such a fate as this was Dante's, 
 
 By defeat and exile maddened; 
 Thus were Milton and Cervantes, 
 Nature's priests and Corybantes, 
 
 By affliction touched and saddened. 
 
 But the glories so transcendent 
 
 That around their memories cluster, 
 And, on all their steps attendant, 
 Make their darkened lives resplendent 
 With such gleams of inward lustre! 
 
 All the melodies mysterious, 
 
 Through the dreary darkness chaunted; 
 Thoughts in attitudes imperious, 
 Voices soft, and deep, and serious, 
 
 Words that whispered, songs that haunted J 
 
 All the soul in rapt suspension, 
 All the quivering, palpitating 
 
118 PROMETHEUS. 
 
 Chords of life in utmost tension, 
 With the fervor of invention, 
 With the rapture of creating! 
 
 Ah, Prometheus! heaven-scaling! 
 
 In such hours of exultation 
 Even the faintest heart, unquailing, 
 Might behold the vulture sailing 
 
 Round the cloudy crags Caucasian! 
 
 Though to all there is not given 
 
 Strength for such sublime endeavor, 
 Thus to scale the walls of heaven, 
 And to leaven with fiery leaven 
 All the hearts of men for ever; 
 
 Yet all bards, whose hearts unblighted 
 
 Honor and believe the presage, 
 Hold aloft their torches lighted, 
 Gleaming through the realms benighted, 
 As they onward bear the message! 
 
THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE. 
 
 Saint Augustine! well hast thou said, 
 That of our vices we can frame 
 
 A ladder, if we will but tread 
 
 Beneath our feet each deed of shame ! 
 
 All common things, each day's events, 
 That with the hour begin and end, 
 
 Our pleasures and our discontents, 
 Are rounds by which we may ascend. 
 
 The low desire, the base design, 
 That makes another's virtues less; 
 
 The revel of the ruddy wine, 
 And all occasions of excess; 
 
 The longing for ignoble things; 
 
 The strife for triumph more than truth; 
 119 
 
120 THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE. 
 
 The hardening of the heart, that brings 
 Irreverence for the dreams of youth; 
 
 All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds, 
 
 That have their root in thoughts of ill; 
 
 Whatever hinders or impedes 
 The action of the nobler will; — 
 
 All these must first be trampled down 
 Beneath our feet, if we would gain 
 
 In the bright fields of fair renown 
 The right of eminent domain. 
 
 We have not wings, we cannot soar; 
 
 But we have feet to scale and climb 
 By slow degrees, by more and more, 
 
 The cloudy summits of our time. 
 
 The mighty pyramids of stone 
 
 That wedge-like cleave the desert airs, 
 
THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE. 121 
 
 When nearer seen, and better known, 
 Are but gigantic flights of stairs. 
 
 The distant mountains, that uprear 
 Their solid bastions to the skies, 
 
 Are crossed by pathways, that appear 
 As we to higher levels rise. 
 
 The heights by great men reached and kept 
 Were not attained by sudden flight, 
 
 But they, while their companions slept, 
 Were toiling upward in the night. 
 
 Standing on what too long we bore 
 
 With shoulders bent and downcast eyes, 
 
 We may discern — unseen before — 
 A path to higher destinies. 
 
 Nor deem the irrevocable Past, 
 
 As wholly wasted, wholly vain, 
 If, rising on its wrecks, at last 
 
 To something nobler we attain. 
 
THE PHANTOM SHIP. 
 
 In Mather's Magnalia Christi, 
 
 Of the old colonial time, 
 May be found in prose the legend 
 
 That is here set down in rhyme. 
 
 A ship sailed from New Haven, 
 And the keen and frosty airs, 
 
 That filled her sails at parting, 
 
 Were heavy with good men's prayers. 
 
 "O Lord! if it be thy pleasure" — 
 Thus prayed the old divine — 
 
 "To bury our friends in the ocean, 
 Take them, for they are thine ! " 
 
 But Master Lamberton muttered, 
 And under his breath said he, 
 122 
 
THE PHANTOM SHIP. 123 
 
 "This ship is so crank and walty 
 I fear our grave she will be ! " 
 
 And the ships that came from England 
 When the winter months were gone, 
 
 Brought no tidings of this vessel 
 Nor of Master Lamberton. 
 
 This put the people to praying 
 
 That the Lord would let them hear 
 
 What in his greater wisdom 
 
 He had done with friends so dear. 
 
 And at last their prayers were answered: — 
 
 It was in the month of June, 
 An hour before the sunset 
 
 Of a windy afternoon, 
 
 When, steadily steering landward, 
 A ship was seen below, 
 
124 THE PHANTOM SHIP. 
 
 And they knew it was Lamberton, Master. 
 Who sailed so long ago. 
 
 On she came, with a cloud of canvas, 
 Right against the wind that blew, 
 
 Until the eye could distinguish 
 The faces of the crew. 
 
 Then fell her straining topmasts, 
 Hanging tangled in the shrouds, 
 
 And her sails were loosened and lifted, 
 And blown away like clouds. 
 
 And the masts, with all their rigging, 
 
 Fell slowly, one by one, 
 And the hulk dilated and vanished, 
 
 As a sea-mist in the sun! 
 
 And the people who saw this marvel 
 Each said unto his friend, 
 
THE PHANTOM SHIP. 125 
 
 That this was the mould of their vessel, 
 And thus her tragic end. 
 
 And the pastor of the village 
 Gave thanks to God in prayer, 
 
 That, to quiet their troubled spirits, 
 He had sent this Ship of Air. 
 
THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE 
 PORTS. 
 
 A mist was driving down the British Channel, 
 
 The day- was just begun, 
 And through the window-panes, on floor and 
 panel, 
 
 Streamed the red autumn sun. 
 
 It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon, 
 
 And the white sails of ships; 
 And, from the frowning rampart, the black 
 cannon 
 
 Hailed it with feverish lips. 
 
 Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and 
 Dover 
 Were all alert that day, 
 126 
 
THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. 127 
 
 To see the French war-steamers speeding 
 over, 
 When the fog cleared away. 
 
 Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, 
 Their cannon, through the night, 
 
 Holding their breath, had watched, in grim 
 defiance, 
 The sea-coast opposite. 
 
 And now they roared at drum-beat from their 
 stations 
 
 On every citadel; 
 Each answering each, with morning salutations, 
 
 That all was well. 
 
 And down the coast, all taking up the burden, 
 
 Replied the distant forts, 
 As if to summon from his sleep the Warden 
 
 And Lord of the Cinque Ports. 
 
128 THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. 
 
 Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure, 
 
 No drum- beat from the wall, 
 No morning gun from the black fort's em- 
 brasure, 
 
 Awaken with its call! 
 
 No more, surveying with an eye impartial 
 
 The long line of the coast, 
 Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field Marshal 
 
 Be seen upon his post! 
 
 For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, 
 
 In sombre harness mailed, 
 Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, 
 
 The rampart wall has scaled. 
 
 He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, 
 
 The dark and silent room, 
 And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper, 
 
 The silence and the doom. 
 
THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. 129 
 
 He did not pause to parley or dissemble, 
 
 But smote the Warden hoar; 
 Ah! what a blow! that made all England 
 tremble 
 
 And groan from shore to shore. 
 
 Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, 
 
 The sun rose bright o'erhead; 
 Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated 
 
 That a great man was dead. 
 
HAUNTED HOUSES. 
 
 All houses wherein men have lived and died 
 Are haunted houses. Through the open doors 
 
 The harmless phantoms on their errands glide, 
 With feet that make no sound upon the 
 floors. 
 
 We meet them at the door-way, on the stair, 
 Along the passages they come and go, 
 
 Impalpable impressions on the air, 
 
 A sense of something moving to and fro. 
 
 There are more guests at table, than the hosts 
 
 Invited; the illuminated hall 
 Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts, 
 
 As silent as the pictures on the wall. 
 130 
 
HAUNTED HOUSES. i 3 j 
 
 The stranger at my fireside cannot see 
 
 The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear; 
 
 He but perceives what is; while unto me 
 All that has been is visible and clear. 
 
 We have no title-deeds to house or lands; 
 
 Owners and occupants of earlier dates 
 From graves forgotten stretch their dusty 
 hands, 
 
 And hold in mortmain still their old estates. 
 
 The spirit-world around this world of sense 
 Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere 
 
 Wafts through these earthly mists and vapors 
 dense 
 A vital breath of more ethereal air. 
 
 Our little lives are kept in equipoise 
 By opposite attractions and desires; 
 
 The struggle of the instinct that enjoys, 
 And the more noble instinct that aspires. 
 
132 HAUNTED HOUSES. 
 
 These perturbations, this perpetual jar 
 Of earthly wants and aspirations high, 
 
 Come from the influence of an unseen star, 
 An undiscovered planet in our sky. 
 
 And as the moon from some dark gate of 
 cloud 
 Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of 
 light, 
 Across whose trembling planks our fancies 
 crowd 
 Into the realm of mystery and night, — 
 
 So from the world of spirits there descends 
 A bridge of light, connecting it with this, 
 
 O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and 
 bends, 
 Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss. 
 
IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAM- 
 BRIDGE. 
 
 In the village churchyard she lies, 
 Dust is in her beautiful eyes, 
 
 No more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs; 
 At her feet and at her head 
 Lies a slave to attend the dead, 
 
 But their dust is white as hers. 
 
 Was she a lady of high degree, 
 So much in love with the vanity 
 
 And foolish pomp of this world of ours? 
 Or was it Christian charity, 
 And lowliness and humility, 
 
 The richest and rarest of all dowers? 
 133 
 
134 IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 Who shall tell us? No one speaks; 
 No color shoots into those cheeks, 
 
 Either of anger or of pride, 
 At the rude question we have asked; 
 Nor will the mystery be unmasked 
 
 By those who are sleeping at her side. 
 
 Hereafter? — And do you think to look 
 On the terrible pages of that Book 
 
 To find her failings, faults, and errors? 
 Ah, you will then have other cares, 
 In your own short-comings and despairs, 
 
 In your own secret sins and terrors! 
 
THE EMPEROR'S BIRD'S-NEST. 
 
 Once the Emperor Charles of Spain, 
 With his swarthy, grave commanders, 
 
 I forget in what campaign, 
 
 Long besieged, in mud and rain, 
 Some old frontier town of Flanders. 
 
 Up and down the dreary camp, 
 In great boots of Spanish leather, 
 
 Striding with a measured tramp, 
 
 These Hidalgos, dull and damp, 
 
 Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the weather. 
 
 Thus as to and fro they went, 
 
 Over upland and through hollow, 
 Giving their impatience vent, 
 135 
 
136 THE EMPEROR'S BIRD'S-NEST. 
 
 Perched upon the Emperor's tent, 
 In her nest, they spied a swallow. 
 
 Yes, it was a swallow's nest, 
 
 Built of clay and hair of horses, 
 Mane, or tail, or dragoon's crest, 
 Found on hedge-rows east and west, 
 After skirmish of the forces. 
 
 Then an old Hidalgo said, 
 
 As he twirled his gray mustachio, 
 "Sure this swallow overhead 
 Thinks the Emperor's tent a shed, 
 And the Emperor but a Macho ! " 
 
 Hearing his imperial name 
 
 Coupled with those words of malice, 
 Half in anger, half in shame, 
 Forth the great campaigner came 
 
 Slowly from his canvas palace. 
 
THE EMPEROR'S BIRD' S-N EST. 131 
 
 "Let no hand the bird molest," 
 Said he solemnly, "nor hurt her!" 
 
 Adding then, by way of jest, 
 
 "Golondrina is my guest, 
 
 'T is the wife of some deserter!" 
 
 Swift as bowstring speeds a shaft, 
 
 Through the camp was spread the rumor, 
 
 And the soldiers, as they quaffed 
 
 Flemish beer at dinner, laughed 
 At the Emperor's pleasant humor. 
 
 So unharmed and unafraid 
 
 Sat the swallow still and brooded, 
 Till the constant cannonade 
 Through the walls a breach had made, 
 And the siege was thus concluded. 
 
 Then the army, elsewhere bent, 
 Struck its tents as if disbanding, 
 
138 THE EMPEROR'S BIRD' 'S-N EST. 
 
 Only not the Emperor's tent, 
 For he ordered, ere he went, 
 
 Very curtly, "Leave it standing!" 
 
 So it stood there all alone, 
 
 Loosely flapping, torn and tattered, 
 Till the brood was fledged and flown, 
 Singing o'er those walls of stone 
 
 Which the cannon-shot had shattered. 
 
THE TWO ANGELS. 
 
 Two angels, one of Life and one of Death, 
 Passed o'er our village as the morning 
 broke ; 
 The dawn was on their faces, and beneath, 
 The sombre houses hearsed with plumes of 
 smoke. 
 
 Their attitude and aspect were the same, 
 Alike their features and their robes of white; 
 
 But one was crowned with amaranth, as with 
 flame, 
 And one with asphodels, like flakes of light. 
 
 I saw them pause on their celestial way; 
 Then said I, with deep fear and doubt op- 
 pressed, 
 
 139 
 
140 THE TWO ANGELS. 
 
 "Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray 
 The place where thy beloved are at rest!" 
 
 And he who wore the crown of asphodels, 
 Descending, at my door began to knock, 
 
 And my soul sank within me, as in wells 
 The waters sink before an earthquake's 
 shock. 
 
 I recognized the nameless agony, 
 
 The terror and the tremor and the pain, 
 
 That oft before had filled or haunted me, 
 And now returned with threefold strength 
 again. 
 
 The door I opened to my heavenly guest, 
 And listened, for I thought I heard God's 
 voice; 
 
 And, knowing whatsoe'er he sent was best, 
 Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice. 
 
THE TWO ANGELS. 141 
 
 Then with a smile, that filled the house with 
 light, 
 "My errand is not Death, but Life," he 
 said; 
 And ere I answered, passing out of sight, 
 On his celestial embassy he sped. 
 
 'T was at thy door, O friend ! and not at 
 mine, 
 The angel with the amaranthine wreath, 
 Pausing, descended, and with voice divine, 
 Whispered a word that had a sound like 
 Death. 
 
 Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, 
 
 A shadow on those features fair and thin; 
 And softly, from that hushed and darkened 
 room, 
 Two angels issued, where but one went 
 in. 
 
142 THE TWO ANGELS. 
 
 All is of God ! If he but wave his hand, 
 The mists collect, the rain falls thick and 
 loud, 
 
 Till, with a smile of light on sea and land, 
 Lo! he looks back from the departing cloud. 
 
 Angels of Life and Death alike are his; 
 
 Without his leave they pass no threshold 
 o'er; 
 Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this, 
 
 Against his messengers to shut the door? 
 
DAYLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT. 
 
 In broad daylight, and at noon, 
 Yesterday I saw the moon 
 Sailing high, but faint and white, 
 As a school-boy's paper kite. 
 
 In broad daylight, yesterday, 
 I read a Poet's mystic lay; 
 And it seemed to me at most 
 As a phantom, or a ghost. 
 
 But at length the feverish day 
 Like a passion died away, 
 And the night, serene and still, 
 Fell on village, vale, and hill. 
 143 
 
144 DAYLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT. 
 
 Then the moon, in all her pride, 
 Like a spirit glorified, 
 Filled and overflowed the night 
 With revelations of her light. 
 
 And the Poet's song again 
 
 Passed like music through my brain; 
 
 Night interpreted to me 
 
 All its grace and mystery, 
 
THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEW- 
 PORT. 
 
 How strange it seems! These Hebrews in 
 their graves, 
 
 Close by the street of this fair seaport town, 
 Silent beside the never-silent waves, 
 
 At rest in all this moving up and down! 
 
 The trees are white with dust, that o'er their 
 sleep 
 Wave their broad curtains in the south- 
 wind's breath, 
 While underneath such leafy tents they keep 
 The long, mysterious Exodus of Death. 
 
 And these sepulchral stones, so old and brown, 
 That pave with level flags their burial-place, 
 145 
 
146 THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPORT. 
 
 Seem like the tablets of the Law, thrown 
 down 
 And broken by Moses at the mountain's base. 
 
 The very names recorded here are strange, 
 Of foreign accent, and of different climes; 
 
 Alvares and Rivera interchange 
 
 With Abraham and Jacob of old times. 
 
 "Blessed be God! for he created Death!" 
 The mourners said, "and Death is rest and 
 peace"; 
 Then added, in the certainty of faith, 
 
 "And giveth Life that never more shall 
 cease." 
 
 Closed are the portals of their Synagogue, 
 No Psalms of David now the silence break, 
 
 No Rabbi reads the ancient Decalogue 
 In the grand dialect the Prophets spake. 
 
THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPORT. 147 
 
 Gone are the living, but the dead remain, 
 And not neglected; for a hand unseen, 
 
 Scattering its bounty, like a summer rain, 
 Still keeps their graves and their remem- 
 brance green. 
 
 How came they here? What burst of Chris- 
 tian hate, 
 
 What persecution, merciless and blind, 
 Drove o'er the sea — that desert desolate — 
 
 These Ishmaels and Hagars of mankind? 
 
 They lived in narrow streets and lanes obscure, 
 Ghetto and Judenstrass, in mirk and mire; 
 
 Taught in the school of patience to endure 
 The life of anguish and the death of fire. 
 
 All their lives long, with the unleavened 
 bread 
 And bitter herbs of exile and its fears, 
 
148 THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPORT. 
 
 The wasting famine of the heart they fed, 
 And slaked its thirst with marah of their 
 tears. 
 
 Anathema maranatha! was the cry 
 
 That rang from town to town, from street 
 to street; 
 At every gate the accursed Mordecai 
 
 Was mocked and jeered, and spurned by 
 Christian feet. 
 
 Pride and humiliation hand in hand 
 
 Walked with them through the world 
 where'er they went; 
 
 Trampled and beaten were they as the sand, 
 And yet unshaken as the continent. 
 
 For in the background figures vague and 
 vast 
 Of patriarchs and of prophets rose sublime, 
 
THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPORT 149 
 
 And all the great traditions of the Past 
 They saw reflected in the coming time. 
 
 And thus for ever with reverted look 
 
 The mystic volume of the world they read, 
 
 Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew book, 
 Till life became a Legend of the Dead. 
 
 But ah ! what once has been shall be no more ! 
 
 The groaning earth in travail and in pain 
 Brings forth its races, but does not restore, 
 
 And the dead nations never rise again. 
 
OLIVER BASSELIN. 
 
 In the Valley of the Vire 
 
 Still is seen an ancient mill, 
 
 With its gables quaint and queer, 
 
 And beneath the window-sill, 
 
 On the stone, 
 
 These words alone : 
 
 "Oliver Basselin lived here." 
 
 Far above it, on the steep, 
 
 Ruined stands the old Chateau; 
 Nothing but the donjon-keep 
 Left for shelter or for show. 
 Its vacant eyes 
 Stare at the skies, 
 Stare at the valley green and deepc 
 150 
 
OLIVER BASSE LIN. 151 
 
 Once a convent, old and brown, 
 
 Looked, but ah ! it looks no more, 
 From the neighboring hillside down 
 On the rushing and the roar 
 Of the stream 
 Whose sunny gleam 
 Cheers the little Norman town. 
 
 In that darksome mill of stone, 
 To the water's dash and din, 
 Careless, humble, and unknown, 
 Sang the poet Basselin 
 Songs that fill 
 That ancient mill 
 With a splendor of its own. 
 
 Never feeling of unrest 
 
 Broke the pleasant dream he dreamed; 
 Only made to be his nest, 
 
 All the lovely valley seemed; 
 
152 OLIVER BASSELIN. 
 
 No desire 
 Of soaring higher 
 Stirred or fluttered in his breast. 
 
 True, his songs were not divine; 
 
 Were not songs of that high art, 
 Which, as winds do in the pine, 
 Find an answer in each heart; 
 But the mirth 
 Of this green earth 
 Laughed and revelled in his line. 
 
 From the alehouse and the inn, 
 Opening on the narrow street, 
 Came the loud, convivial din, 
 Singing and applause of feet, 
 The laughing lays 
 That in those days 
 Sang the poet Basselin. 
 
OLIVER BASSELIN. 153 
 
 In the castle, cased in steel, 
 
 Knights, who fought at Agincourt, 
 Watched and waited, spur on heel; 
 But the poet sang for sport 
 Songs that rang 
 Another clang, 
 Songs that lowlier hearts could feel. 
 
 In the convent, clad in gray, 
 
 Sat the monks in lonely cells, 
 Paced the cloisters, knelt to pray, 
 And the poet heard their bells; 
 But his rhymes 
 Found other chimes, 
 Nearer to the earth than they. 
 
 Gone are all the barons bold, 
 
 Gone are all the knights and squires, 
 
 Gone the abbot stern and cold, 
 And the brotherhood of friars; 
 
154 OLIVER BASSELIN. 
 
 Not a name 
 Remains to fame, 
 From those mouldering days of old! 
 
 But the poet's memory here 
 
 Of the landscape makes a part; 
 Like the river, swift and clear, 
 
 Flows his song through many a heart; 
 Haunting still 
 That ancient mill, 
 Iu the Valley of the Vire. 
 
VICTOR GALBRAITH. 
 
 Under the walls of Monterey 
 
 At daybreak the bugles began to play, 
 
 Victor Galbraith! 
 In the mist of the morning damp and gray, 
 These were the words they seemed to say: 
 
 "Come forth to thy death, 
 
 Victor Galbraith ! » 
 
 Forth he came, with a martial tread; 
 Firm was his step, erect his head; 
 
 Victor Galbraith, 
 He who so well the bugle played, 
 Could not mistake the words it said: 
 
 "Come forth to thy death, 
 
 Victor Galbraith!" 
 155 
 
156 VICTOR GALBRAITH. 
 
 He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky, 
 He looked at the files of musketry, 
 
 Victor Galbraith! 
 And he said, with a steady voice and eye, 
 "Take good aim; I am ready to die!" 
 
 Thus challenges death 
 
 Victor Galbraith. 
 
 Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and red, 
 Six leaden balls on their errand sped; 
 
 Victor Galbraith 
 Falls to the ground, but he is not dead; 
 His name was not stamped on those balls of 
 lead, 
 
 And they only scath 
 
 Victor Galbraith. 
 
 Three balls are in his breast and brain, 
 But he rises out of the dust again, 
 Victor Galbraith! 
 
VICTOR GALBRAITH. 157 
 
 The water he drinks has a bloody stain; 
 "O kill me, and put me out of my pain!" 
 
 In his agony prayeth 
 
 Victor Galbraith. 
 
 Forth dart once more those tongues of flame, 
 And the bugler has died a death of shame, 
 
 Victor Galbraith! 
 His soul has gone back to whence it came, 
 And no one answers to the name, 
 
 When the Sergeant saith, 
 
 "Victor Galbraith!" 
 
 Under the walls of Monterey 
 
 By night a bugle is heard to play, 
 
 Victor Galbraith! 
 Through the mist of the valley damp and gray 
 The sentinels hear the sound, and say, 
 
 "That is the wraith 
 
 Of Victor Galbraith!" 
 
MY LOST YOUTH. 
 
 Often I think of the beautiful town 
 
 That is seated by the sea; 
 Often in thought go up and down 
 The pleasant streets of that dear old town, 
 And my youth comes back to me. 
 And a verse of a Lapland song 
 Is haunting my memory still: 
 "A boy's will is the wind's will, 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
 thoughts." 
 
 I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, 
 
 And catch, in sudden gleams, 
 The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, 
 And islands that were the Hesperides 
 
 Of all my boyish dreams. 
 158 
 
MY LOST YOUTH. 159 
 
 And the burden of that old song, 
 It murmurs and whispers still : 
 "A boy's will is the wind's will, 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
 thoughts." 
 
 I remember the black wharves and the slips, 
 
 And the sea-tides tossing free; 
 And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, 
 And the beauty and mystery of the ships, 
 And the magic of the sea. 
 
 And the voice of that wayward song 
 Is singing and saying still: 
 "A boy's will is the wind's will, 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
 thoughts." 
 
 I remember the bulwarks by the shore, 
 
 And the fort upon the hill; 
 The sun-rise gun, with its hollow roar, 
 
160 MY LOST YOUTH. 
 
 The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, 
 And the bugle wild and shrill. 
 And the music of that old song 
 Throbs in my memory still: 
 "A boy's will is the wind's will, 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
 thoughts." 
 
 I remember the sea-fight far away, 
 How it thundered o'er the tide! 
 And the dead captains, as they lay 
 In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay, 
 Where they in battle died. 
 
 And the sound of that mournful song 
 Goes through me with a thrill: 
 "A boy's will is the wind's will, 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
 thoughts." 
 
 I can see the breezy dome of groves, 
 The shadows of Deering's Woods; 
 
MY LOST YOUTH. 161 
 
 And the friendships old and the early loves 
 Come back with a sabbath sound, as of doves 
 In quiet neighborhoods. 
 And the verse of that sweet old song, 
 It flutters and murmurs still: 
 "A boy's will is the wind's will, 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
 thoughts." 
 
 I remember the gleams and glooms that 
 dart 
 Across the schoolboy's brain; 
 The song and the silence in the heart, 
 That in part are prophecies, and in part 
 Are longings wild and vain. 
 
 And the voice of that fitful song 
 Sings on, and is never still: 
 "A boy's will is the wind's will, 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
 thoughts." 
 
162 MY LOST YOUTH. 
 
 There are things of which I may not speak; 
 
 There are dreams that cannot die; 
 There are thoughts that make the strong heart 
 
 weak, 
 And bring a pallor into the cheek, 
 And a mist before the eye. 
 
 And the words of that fatal song 
 Come over me like a chill: 
 "A boy's will is the wind's will, 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
 thoughts." 
 
 Strange to me now are the forms I meet 
 
 When I visit the dear old town; 
 But the native air is pure and sweet, 
 And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known 
 street, 
 As they balance up and down, ; 
 Are singing the beautiful song, 
 Are sighing and whispering still: 
 
MY LOST YOUTH. 1^3 
 
 "A boy's will is the wind's will, 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
 thoughts." 
 
 And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, 
 
 And with joy that is almost pain 
 My heart goes back to wander there, 
 And among the dreams of the days that were, 
 I find my lost youth again. 
 And the strange and beautiful song, 
 The groves are repeating it still: 
 "A boy's will is the wind's will, 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
 thoughts." 
 
THE ROPEWALK. 
 
 In that building, long and low, 
 With its windows all a-row, 
 
 Like the port-holes of a hulk, 
 Human spiders spin and spin, 
 Backward down their threads so thin 
 
 Dropping, each a hempen bulk. 
 
 At the end, an open door; 
 Squares of sunshine on the floor 
 
 Light the long and dusky lane; 
 And the whirring of a wheel, 
 Dull and drowsy, makes me feel 
 
 All its spokes are in my brain. 
 
 As the spinners to the end 
 Downward go and reascend, 
 
 Gleam the long threads in the sun; 
 164 
 
THE ROPE WALK. 165 
 
 While within this brain of mine 
 
 Cobwebs brighter and more fine 
 
 By the busy wheel are spun. 
 
 Two fair maidens in a swing, 
 Like white doves upon the wing, 
 
 First before my vision pass; 
 Laughing, as their gentle hands 
 Closely clasp the twisted strands, 
 
 At their shadow on the grass. 
 
 Then a booth of mountebanks, 
 With its smell of tan and planks, 
 
 And a girl poised high in air 
 On a cord, in spangled dress, 
 With a faded loveliness, 
 
 And a weary look of care. 
 
 Then a homestead among farms, 
 And a woman with bare arms 
 Drawing water from a well; 
 
166 THE ROPEIVALK. 
 
 As the bucket mounts apace, 
 With it mounts her own fair face, 
 As at some magician's spell. 
 
 Then an old man in a tower, 
 Ringing loud the noontide hour, 
 
 While the rope coils round and round 
 Like a serpent at his feet, 
 And again, in swift retreat, 
 
 Nearly lifts him from the ground. 
 
 Then within a prison-yard, 
 Faces fixed, and stern, and hard, 
 
 Laughter and indecent mirth; 
 Ah ! it is the gallows-tree ! 
 Breath of Christian charity, 
 
 Blow, and sweep it from the earth! 
 
 Then a school-boy, with his kite 
 Gleaming in a sky of light, 
 And an eager, upward look; 
 
THE ROPEWALK. 167 
 
 Steeds pursued through lane and field; 
 Fowlers with their snares concealed; 
 And an angler by a brook. 
 
 Ships rejoicing in the breeze, 
 Wrecks that float o'er unknown seas, 
 
 Anchors dragged through faithless sand; 
 Sea-fog drifting overhead, 
 And, with lessening line and lead, 
 
 Sailors feeling for the land. 
 
 All these scenes do I behold, 
 These, and many left untold, 
 
 In that building long and low; 
 While the wheel goes round and round, 
 With a drowsy, dreamy sound, 
 
 And the spinners backward go. 
 
THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE. 
 
 Leafless are the trees; their purple branches 
 Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of coral, 
 
 Rising silent 
 In the Red Sea of the Winter sunset. 
 
 From the hundred chimneys of the village, 
 Like the Afreet in the Arabian story, 
 
 Smoky columns 
 Tower aloft into the air of amber. 
 
 At the window winks the flickering fire-light; 
 Here and there the lamps of evening glimmer, 
 
 Social watch-fires 
 Answering one another through the darkness. 
 168 
 
THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE. 169 
 
 On the hearth the lighted logs are glowing, 
 And like Ariel in the cloven pine-tree 
 
 For its freedom 
 Groans and sighs the air imprisoned in them. 
 
 By the fireside there are old men seated, 
 Seeing ruined cities in the ashes, 
 
 Asking sadly 
 Of the Past what it can ne'er restore them. 
 
 By the fireside there are youthful dreamers, 
 Building castles fair, with stately stairways, 
 
 Asking blindly 
 Of the Future what it cannot give them. 
 
 By the fireside tragedies are acted 
 
 In whose scenes appear two actors only, 
 
 Wife and husband, 
 And above them God the sole spectator. 
 
170 THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE. 
 
 By the fireside there are peace and comfort, 
 Wives and children, with fair, thoughtful faces, 
 
 Waiting, watching 
 For a well-known footstep in the passage. 
 
 Each man's chimney is his Golden Mile-stone; 
 Is the central point, from which he measures 
 
 Every distance 
 Through the gateways of the world around him. 
 
 In his farthest wanderings still he sees it ; 
 Hears the talking flame, the answering night- 
 wind, 
 As he heard them 
 When he sat with those who were, but are not. 
 
 Happy he whom neither wealth nor fashion, 
 Nor the march of the encroaching city, 
 
 Drives an exile 
 From the hearth of his ancestral homestead. 
 
THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE. 171 
 
 We may build more splendid habitations, 
 Fill our rooms with paintings and with sculp- 
 tures, 
 But we cannot 
 Buy with gold the old associations! 
 
CATAWBA WINE. 
 
 This song of mine 
 
 Is a Song of the Vine, 
 
 To be sung by the glowing embers 
 Of wayside inns, 
 When the rain begins 
 
 To darken the drear Novembers. 
 
 It is not a song 
 
 Of the Scuppernong, 
 From warm Carolinian valleys, 
 
 Nor the Isabel 
 
 And the Muscadel 
 That bask in our garden alleys. 
 
 Nor the red Mustang, 
 Whose clusters hang 
 O'er the waves of the Colorado, 
 172 
 
CATAWBA WINE. 173 
 
 And the fiery flood 
 Of whose purple blood 
 Has a dash of Spanish bravado. 
 
 For richest and best 
 
 Is the wine of the West, 
 That grows by the Beautiful River; 
 
 Whose sweet perfume 
 
 Fills all the room 
 With a benison on the giver. 
 
 And as hollow trees 
 
 Are the haunts of bees, 
 For ever going and coming; 
 
 So this crystal hive 
 
 Is all alive 
 With a swarming and buzzing and humming. 
 
 Very good in its way 
 Is the Verzenay, 
 Or the Sillery soft and creamy; 
 
174 CATAWBA WINE. 
 
 But Catawba wine 
 Has a taste more divine, 
 More dulcet, delicious, and dreamy. 
 
 There grows no vine 
 
 By the haunted Rhine, 
 By Danube or Guadalquivir, 
 
 Nor on island or cape, 
 
 That bears such a grape 
 As grows by the Beautiful River. 
 
 Drugged is their juice 
 
 For foreign use, 
 When shipped o'er the reeling Atlantic, 
 
 To rack our brains 
 
 With the fever pains, 
 That have driven the Old World frantic. 
 
 To the sewers and sinks 
 With all such drinks, 
 And after them tumble the mixer; 
 
CATAWBA WINE 175 
 
 For a poison malign 
 Is such Borgia wine, 
 Or at best but a Devil's Elixir. 
 
 While pure as a spring 
 
 Is the wine I sing, 
 And to praise it, one needs but name it; 
 
 For Catawba wine 
 
 Has need of no sign, 
 No tavern-bush to proclaim it. 
 
 And this Song of the Vine, 
 
 This greeting of mine, 
 The winds and the birds shall deliver 
 
 To the Queen of the West, 
 
 In her garlands dressed, 
 On the banks of the Beautiful River. 
 
SANTA FILOMENA. 
 
 Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, 
 Whene'er is spoken a noble thought 
 
 Our hearts, in glad surprise, 
 
 To higher levels rise. 
 
 The tidal wave of deeper souls 
 
 Into our inmost being rolls, 
 And lifts us unawares 
 Out of all meaner cares. 
 
 Honor to those whose words or deeds 
 Thus help us in our daily needs, 
 And by their overflow 
 Raise us from' what is low) 
 176 
 
SANTA FILOMENA. 177 
 
 Thus thought I, as by night I read 
 
 Of the great army of the dead, 
 The trenches cold and damp, 
 The starved and frozen camp, — 
 
 The wounded from the battle-plain, 
 In dreary hospitals of pain, 
 
 The cheerless corridors, 
 
 The cold and stony floors. 
 
 Lo! in that house of misery 
 
 A lady with a lamp I see 
 
 Pass through the glimmering gloom, 
 And flit from room to room. 
 
 And slow, as in a dream of bliss, 
 The speechless sufferer turns to kiss 
 
 Her shadow, as it falls 
 
 Upon the darkening walls. 
 
178 SANTA FILOMENA. 
 
 As if a door in heaven should be 
 Opened and then closed suddenly, 
 The vision came and went, 
 The light shone and was spent. 
 
 On England's annals, through the long 
 Hereafter of her speech and song, 
 That light its rays shall cast 
 From portals of the past. 
 
 A Lady with a Lamp shall stand 
 In the great history of the land, 
 
 A noble type of good, 
 
 Heroic womanhood. 
 
 Nor even shall be wanting here 
 The palm, the lily, and the spear, 
 
 The symbols that of yore 
 
 Saint Filomena bore. 
 
THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH 
 CAPE. 
 
 A LEAF FROM KING ALFRED'S OROSIUS. 
 
 Othere, the old sea-captain, 
 
 Who dwelt in Helgoland, 
 To King Alfred, the Lover of Truth, 
 Brought a snow-white walrus-tooth, 
 
 Which he held in his brown right hand. 
 
 His figure was tall and stately, 
 Like a boy's his eye appeared; 
 
 His hair was yellow as hay, 
 
 But threads of a silvery gray 
 Gleamed in his tawny beard. 
 
 Hearty and hale was Othere, 
 
 His cheek had the color of oak; 
 179 
 
180 THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE. 
 
 With a kind of laugh in his speech, 
 Like the sea-tide on a beach, 
 As unto the King he spoke. 
 
 And Alfred, King of the Saxons, 
 
 Had a book upon his knees, 
 And wrote down the wondrous tale 
 Of him who was first to sail 
 
 Into the Arctic seas. 
 
 "So far I live to the northward, 
 
 No man lives north of me; 
 To the east are wild mountain-chains, 
 And beyond them meres and plains; 
 
 To the westward all is sea. 
 
 "So far I live to the northward, 
 From the harbor of Skeringes-hale, 
 
 If you only sailed by day, 
 
 With a fair wind all the way, 
 
 More than a month would you sail. 
 
THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE. 181 
 
 "I own six hundred reindeer, 
 
 With sheep and swine beside; 
 I have tribute from the Finns, 
 Whalebone and reindeer-skins, 
 
 And ropes of walrus-hide. 
 
 "I ploughed the land with horses, 
 
 But my heart was ill at ease, 
 For the old seafaring men 
 Came to me now and then, 
 
 With their sagas of the seas; — 
 
 "Of Iceland and of Greenland, 
 
 And the stormy Hebrides, 
 And the undiscovered deep; — 
 I could not eat nor sleep 
 
 For thinking of those seas. 
 
 "To the northward stretched the desert, 
 How far I fain would know; 
 
182 THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE. 
 
 So at last I sallied forth, 
 And three days sailed due north, 
 As far as the whale-ships go. 
 
 "To the west of me was the ocean, 
 
 To the right the desolate shore, 
 But I did not slacken sail 
 For the walrus or the whale, 
 Till after three days more. 
 
 "The days grew longer and longer, 
 
 Till they became as one, 
 And southward through the haze 
 I saw the sullen blaze 
 
 Of the red midnight sun. 
 
 "And then uprose before me, 
 
 Upon the water's edge, 
 The huge and haggard shape 
 Of that unknown North Cape, 
 
 Whose form is like a wedge. 
 
THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE. 183 
 
 "The sea was rough and stormy, 
 The tempest howled and wailed, 
 
 And the sea-fog, like a ghost, 
 
 Haunted that dreary coast, 
 But onward still I sailed. 
 
 "Four days I steered to eastward. 
 
 Four days without a night: 
 Round in a fiery ring 
 Went the great sun, O King, 
 
 With red and lurid light." 
 
 Here Alfred, King of the Saxons, 
 
 Ceased writing for a while; 
 And raised his eyes from his book, 
 With a strange and puzzled look, 
 And an incredulous smile. 
 
 But Othere, the old sea-captain, 
 He neither paused nor stirred, 
 
184 THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE. 
 
 Till the King listened, and then 
 Once more took up his pen, 
 And wrote down every word. 
 
 "And now the land," said Othere, 
 "Bent southward suddenly, 
 
 And I followed the curving shore 
 
 And ever southward bore 
 Into a nameless sea. 
 
 "And there we hunted the walrus, 
 The narvvhale, and the seal; 
 
 Ha! 'twas a noble game! 
 
 And like the lightning's flame 
 Flew our harpoons of steel. 
 
 "There were six of us all together, 
 
 Norsemen of Helgoland; 
 In two days and no more 
 We killed of them threescore, 
 
 And dragged them to the strand ! " 
 
THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE. 185 
 
 Here Alfred the Truth-Teller 
 
 Suddenly closed his book, 
 And lifted his blue eyes, 
 With doubt and strange surmise 
 
 Depicted in their look. 
 
 And Othere the old sea-captain 
 
 Stared at him wild and weird, 
 Then smiled, till his shining teeth 
 Gleamed white from underneath 
 His tawny, quivering beard. 
 
 And to the King of the Saxons, 
 
 In witness of the truth, 
 Raising his noble head, 
 He stretched his brown hand, and said, 
 
 "Behold this walrus-tooth!" 
 
DAYBREAK. 
 
 A wind came up out of the sea, 
 
 And said, "0 mists, make room for me.' 
 
 It hailed the ships, and cried, "Sail on, 
 Ye mariners, the night is gone." 
 
 And hurried landward far away, 
 Crying, "Awake! it is the day." 
 
 It said unto the forest, "Shout! 
 Hang all your leafy banners out ! " 
 
 It touched the wood-bird's folded wing, 
 And said, "O bird, awake and sing." 
 
 And o'er the farms, "O chanticleer, 
 Your clarion blow; the day is near." 
 186 
 
DAYBREAK. 187 
 
 It whispered to the fields of corn, 
 
 "Bow down, and hail the coming morn." 
 
 It shouted through the belfry-tower, 
 "Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour." 
 
 It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, 
 And said, "Not yet ! in quiet lie." 
 
THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ. 
 
 May 28, 1857. 
 
 It was fifty years ago 
 
 In the pleasant month of May, 
 In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, 
 
 A child in its cradle lay. 
 
 And Nature, the old nurse, took 
 
 The child upon her knee, 
 Saying: "Here is a story-book 
 
 Thy Father has written for thee. 
 
 "Come, wander with me," she said, 
 
 "Into regions yet untrod; 
 And read what is still unread 
 
 In the manuscripts of God." 
 188 
 
THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ. 189 
 
 And he wandered away and away 
 With Nature, the dear old nurse, 
 
 Who sang to him night and day 
 The rhymes of the universe. 
 
 And whenever the way seemed long, 
 
 Or his heart began to fail, 
 She would sing a more wonderful song, 
 
 Or tell a more marvellous tale. 
 
 So she keeps him still a child, 
 
 And will not let him go, 
 Though at times his heart beats wild 
 
 For the beautiful Pays de Vaud; 
 
 Though at times he hears in his dreams 
 The Ranz des Vaches of old, 
 
 And the rush of mountain streams 
 From glaciers clear and cold; 
 
190 THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ. 
 
 And the mother at home says, "Hark! 
 
 For his voice I listen and yearn; 
 It is growing late and dark, 
 
 And my boy does not return ! " 
 
CHILDREN. 
 
 Come to me, ye children! 
 
 For I hear you at your play, 
 And the questions that perplexed me 
 
 Have vanished quite away. 
 
 Ye open the eastern windows, 
 
 That look towards the sun, 
 Where thoughts are singing swallows 
 
 And the brooks of morning run. 
 
 In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, 
 In your thoughts the brooklet's flow, 
 
 But in mine is the wind of Autumn 
 And the first fall of the snow. 
 191 
 
192 CHILDREN. 
 
 Ah! what would the world be to us 
 If the children were no more? 
 
 We should dread the desert behind us 
 Worse than the dark before. 
 
 What the leaves are to the forest, 
 
 With light and air for food, 
 Ere their sweet and tender juices 
 
 Have been hardened into wood, — 
 
 That to the world are children; 
 
 Through them it feels the glow 
 Of a brighter and sunnier climate 
 
 Than reaches the trunks below. 
 
 Come to me, O ye children! 
 
 And whisper in my ear 
 What the birds and the winds are singing 
 
 In your sunny atmosphere. 
 
CHILDREN. 193 
 
 For what are all our contrivings, 
 And the wisdom of our books, 
 
 When compared with your caresses, 
 And the gladness of your looks? 
 
 Ye are better than all the ballads 
 
 That ever were sung or said; 
 For ye are living poems, 
 
 And all the rest are dead. 
 
SANDALPHON. 
 
 Have you read in the Talmud of old, 
 In the Legends the Rabbins have told 
 
 Of the limitless realms of the air, — 
 Have you read it, — the marvellous story 
 Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, 
 
 Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer? 
 
 How, erect, at the outermost gates 
 Of the City Celestial he waits, 
 
 With his feet on the ladder of light, 
 That, crowded with angels unnumbered, 
 By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered 
 
 Alone in the desert at night? 
 194 
 
SANDALPHON. 195 
 
 The Angels of Wind and of Fire 
 Chaunt only one hymn, and expire 
 
 With the song's irresistible stress; 
 Expire in their rapture and wonder, 
 As harp-strings are broken asunder 
 
 By music they throb to express. 
 
 But serene in the rapturous throng, 
 Unmoved by the rush of the song, 
 
 With eyes unimpassioned and slow, 
 Among the dead angels, the deathless 
 Sandalphon stands listening breathless 
 
 To sounds that ascend from below; — 
 
 From the spirits on earth that adore, 
 From the souls that entreat and implore 
 
 In the fervor and passion of prayer; 
 From the hearts that are broken with losses, 
 And weary with dragging the crosses 
 
 Too heavy for mortals to bear. 
 
196 SANDALPHON. 
 
 And he gathers the prayers as he stands, 
 And they change into flowers in his hands, 
 
 Into garlands of purple and red; 
 And beneath the great arch of the portal, 
 Through the streets of the City Immortal 
 
 Is wafted the fragrance they shed. 
 
 It is but a legend, I know, — 
 A fable, a phantom, a show, 
 
 Of the ancient Rabbinical lore; 
 Yet the old mediaeval tradition, 
 The beautiful, strange superstition, 
 
 But haunts me and holds me the more. 
 
 When I look from my window at night, 
 And the welkin above is all white, 
 
 All throbbing and panting with stars, 
 Among them majestic is standing 
 Sandalphon the angel, expanding 
 
 His pinions in nebulous bars. 
 
SANDALPHON. 197 
 
 And the legend, I feel, is a part 
 
 Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, 
 
 The frenzy and fire of the brain, 
 That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, 
 The golden pomegranates of Eden, 
 
 To quiet its fever and pain. 
 
EPIMETHEUS, 
 
 OR THE POET'S AFTERTHOUGHT. 
 
 Have I dreamed? or was it real, 
 
 What I saw as in a vision, 
 When to marches hymeneal 
 In the land of the Ideal 
 
 Moved my thought o'er Fields Elysian? 
 
 What! are these the guests whose glances 
 Seemed like sunshine gleaming round me? 
 
 These the wild, bewildering fancies, 
 
 That with dithyrambic dances 
 As with magic circles bound me? 
 
 Ah! how cold are their caresses! 
 Pallid cheeks, and haggard bosoms! 
 198 
 
EPIMETHEUS. 199 
 
 Spectral gleam their snow-white dresses, 
 And from loose, dishevelled tresses 
 Fall the hyacinthine blossoms! 
 
 O my songs! whose winsome measures 
 Filled my heart with secret rapture! 
 
 Children of my golden leisures! 
 
 Must even your delights and pleasures 
 Fade and perish with the capture? 
 
 Fair they seemed, those songs sonorous 
 
 When they came to me unbidden; 
 Voices single, and in chorus, 
 Like the wild birds singing o'er us 
 In the dark of branches hidden. 
 
 Disenchantment ! Disillusion ! 
 
 Must each noble aspiration 
 Come at last to this conclusion, 
 Jarring discord, wild confusion, 
 
 Lassitude, renunciation? 
 
200 EPIMETHEUS. 
 
 Not with steeper fall nor faster, 
 From the sun's serene dominions, 
 
 Not through brighter realms nor vaster, 
 
 In swift ruin and disaster, 
 
 Icarus fell with shattered pinions! 
 
 Sweet Pandora! dear Pandora! 
 
 Why did mighty Jove create thee 
 Coy as Thetis, fair as Flora, 
 Beautiful as young Aurora, 
 
 If to win thee is to hate thee? 
 
 No, not hate thee! for this feeling 
 
 Of unrest and long resistance 
 Is but passionate appealing, 
 A prophetic whisper stealing 
 
 O'er the chords of our existence. 
 
 Him whom thou dost once enamour, 
 Thou, beloved, never leavest; 
 
EPIMETHEUS. 201 
 
 In life's discord, strife, and clamor, 
 Still he feels thy spell of glamour; 
 Him of Hope thou ne'er bereavest. 
 
 Weary hearts by thee are lifted, 
 
 Struggling souls by thee are strengthened, 
 Clouds of fear asunder rifted, 
 Truth from falsehood cleansed and sifted, 
 
 Lives, like days in summer, lengthened! 
 
 Therefore art thou ever dearer, 
 
 O my Sibyl, my deceiver! 
 For thou makest each mystery clearer, 
 And the unattained seems nearer, 
 
 When thou fillest my heart with fever! 
 
 Muse of all the Gifts and Graces! 
 
 Though the fields around us wither, 
 There are ampler realms and spaces, 
 Where no foot has left its traces: 
 
 Let us turn and wander thither! 
 
NOTES. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 Page 119. That of our vices we can frame 
 
 A ladder. 
 The words of St. Augustine are, " De Vitiis nostris scalam 
 nobis facimus, si vitia ipsa calcamus." 
 
 Sermon III. De Ascensione. 
 
 Page 122. The Phantom Ship. 
 
 A detailed account of this " Apparition of a Ship in the 
 Air " is given by Cotton Mather in his Magnalia Christi, 
 Book I. Ch. VI. It is contained in a letter from the Rev. 
 James Pierpont, Pastor of New Haven. To this account 
 Mather adds these words : — 
 
 " Reader, there being yet living so many credible gen- 
 tlemen, that were eyewitnesses of this wonderful thing, I 
 venture to publish it for a thing as undoubted as 't is 
 wonderful." 
 
 Page 136. And the Emperor but a Macho. 
 Macho, in Spanish, signifies a mule. Golondrina is the 
 feminine form of Golondrino, a swallow, and also a cant 
 name for a deserter. 
 
 Page 150. Oliver Basselin. 
 
 Oliver Basselin, the "Fere joyeux du Vaudeville" 
 flourished in the fifteenth century, and gave to his conviv- 
 ial songs the name of his native valleys, in which he sang 
 them, Vaux-de-Vire. This name was afterwards corrupted 
 into the modern Vaudeville. 
 
 205 
 
206 NOTES. 
 
 Page 155. Victor Galbraith. 
 
 This poem is founded on fact. Victor Galbraith was a 
 bugler in a company of volunteer cavalry; and was shot 
 in Mexico for some breach of discipline. It is a common 
 superstition among soldiers, that no balls will kill them 
 unless their names are written on them. The old proverb 
 says, " Every bullet has its billet." 
 
 Page 160. I remember the sea-Jight far away. 
 
 This was the engagement between the Enterprise and 
 Boxer, off the harbor of Portland, in which both captains 
 were slain. They were buried side by side, in the ceme- 
 tery on Mountjoy. 
 
 Page 176. Santa Filomena. 
 
 " At Pisa the church of San Francisco contains a chapel 
 dedicated lately to Santa Filomena ; over the altar is a 
 picture, by Sabatelli, representing the Saint as a beautiful, 
 nymph-like figure, floating down from heaven, attended by 
 two angels bearing the lily, palm, and javelin, and beneath, 
 in the foreground, the sick and maimed, who are healed by 
 her intercession." — Mrs. Jameson, Sacred and Legendary 
 Art, II. 298. 
 
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