Class____ . Book P E M S ■ POEMS, HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. ILLUSTRATED WITH UPWARDS OF ONE HUNDRED ENGRAVINGS ON WOOD, FKOM DESIGNS BY JANE E. BENHAM, EIRKET FOSTER, ETC. LONDON: DAVID BOGUE, 86, FLEET STREET LONDON : HENRY VIZKTELT.T, PRINTEB AND ENGltAVER, COVGH SQUARE, FLEET STREET. CONTENTS. EVAN GE LINE. PART THE FIRST . PART THE SECOND V U'.E 1 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. PRELUDE .... HYMN TO THE NIGHT . A PSALM OF LIFE THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS THE LIOHT OF STARS . FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS . FLOWERS .... THE BELEAGUERED CITY MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR L' ENVOI THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE. DEDICATION BY TIJE SEASIDE. THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP THE EVENING STAR THE SECRET OF THE SEA TWILIGHT SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT 121 138 130 111' 14 1 CONTENTS. PAGE THE LIGHTHOUSE 140 THE FIRE OF DRIFTWOOD ......... 149 BY THE FIRESIDE. RESIGNATION . . . . . . . , . . .151 THE BUILDERS . . . . . ... . . .151 SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN HOUR-GLASS ...... 155 BIRDS OF PASSAGE . . . . . . . . .158 THE OPEN WINDOW .......... 160 KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN ........ 162 GASPAR BECERRA .......... 164 PEGASUS IN POUND .......... 165 TEGNERS DRAPA 168 SONNET ON MRS. KEMBLE'S READINGS FROM SHAKSPEARE . 171 THE SINGERS 171 SUSPIRIA . .175 HYMN FOR MY BROTHER'S ORDINATION . . . . . .175 POEMS ON SLAVERY. TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING . . 179 THE SLAVE'S DREAM .......... 180 THE GOOD PART THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY . . . .183 THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP . . . . . .184 THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT . « 186 THE WITNESSES . . . . . . . . . ... 187 THE QUADROON GIRL .......... 189 THE WARNING 192 BALLADS, SONGS, AND SONNETS. BALLADS. THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR ......... 195 THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS ........ 201 CONTENTS. SONGS. SEAWEED .... THE DAY IS DONE AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY . TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK WALTER TON DER VOGELAVEIDE DRINKING SONG ... THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS THE ARROW AND THE SONG TA.GE 209 211 213 214 218 221 223 AUTUMN THE EVENING STAR DANTE . SONNETS. EARLIER POEMS. AN APRIL DAY AUTUMN ....... WOODS IN WINTER ..... HYMN OT THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM SUNRISE ON THE HILLS .... THE SPIRIT OF POETRY .... BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK .... 233 235 237 239 211 213 215 y MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH ..... ENDYMION THE TWO LUCKS OF HAIR IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY THE RAINY DAY . GOD'S-ACRE . ... 257 258 260 26] CONTENTS. I TO THE RIVER CHARLES BLIND BARTIMEUS THE GOBLET OF LIFE . MAIDENHOOD EXCELSIOR .... CARILLON .... THE BELERY OE BRUGES A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD NUREMBERG THE NORMAN BARON RAIN IN SUMMER TO A CHILD THE OCCULTATION OF ORTON THE BRIDGE TO THE DRIVING CLOUD CURFEW .... PAGE 203 205 ■itx 20J 271 277 280 283 285 289 293 297 305 309 312 314 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. EVANGELINE. PART THE FIRST. I. " The murmuring pines, and the hemlocks. Bearded with moss, and in garments green." DESIGNED BY PAGE Birket Foster. 1 II. " Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers for ever departed." Birket Foster. 2 III. " Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them." Birket Foster. 3 IV. "Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her." Jane E. Benham, 6 V. "Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea." Birket Foster. VI. " Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses." Birket Foster. VII. " Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his missal, Fixed his eyes upon her, as the saint of his deepest devotion." Jane E. Benham. 9 VIII. "Father Felician, priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the plain-song." Jane E. Benham. 10 IX. " There at the door they stood with wondering eyes to behold him Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything." Birket Foster. 11 X. "Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters." Birket Foster. 12 LTST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. DESIGNED BV TAtiK XI. "Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer, Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that wavedfrom her collar." Birket Foster. 13 XII. "Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes, Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odour." Birket Foster. 15 XIII. " ' Not so thinketh the folk in the village,' said, warmly, the blacksmith, Shaking his head, as in doubt." John Gilbert. 18 XIV. " More than a hundred Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick." John Gilbert. 20 XV. "In friendly contention the old men Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuvre." John Gilbert. 21 XVI. "Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the door-step Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with gladness." Jane E. Benham. 25 XVII. " For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father ; Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladness Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it." Jane E. Benham. 27 XVIII. " Now from the country around, from the farms and the neighbouring hamlets, Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants." Birket Foster. 28 XIX. " Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances Under the orchard trees and down the path to the meadows." Birket Foster. 30 XX. " Without, in the churchyard, Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the head-stones Garlands of autumn leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest." Birkkt Foster. 31 XXI. " Then, all forgetful of self, she wandered into the village, Cheering with looks and words the disconsolate hearts of the women." Jane E. Benham. 35 XXII. " Marching in gloomy procession Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers." .Tank E. Bknham. 37 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. ED EY TAGE XXIII. "Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm- yard — "Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid." BirKet Foster. 40 XXIV. " Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow." Birket Foster. 42 XXV. "Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches, But without bell or book, they hurieri the farmer of Grand Pre." Birket Foster. 4.3 XXYI. " Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking ; And with the ebb of that tide the ships sailed out of the harbour." Birket Foster. 46 PART THE SECOND. XXVII. " Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered, Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things." Jane E. Benham. 47 XXVIII. • Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi, Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boatmen. Birket Foster. 51 "Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, where plume-like Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the current." Birket Foster. 5: XXX. "Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed on the water." Birket Foster. 53 XXXI. "Resplendent in beauty, the lotus Lifted her golden crown above the heads of the boatmen." Birket Foster. XXXII. " Safely their boat was moored ; and scattered about on the greensward, Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travellers slumbered." Birket Foster. j(> XXXIII. "Nearer and ever nearer, among the numberless islands, Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water.'' Birket Foster. 5/ LIST OF ILLUSTKATIONS. XXXIV. " The house itself was of timbers Hewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully fitted together. BY PAGE Birket Foster. 60 XXXV. 1 Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the cattle Rose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of ocean." Birket Foster. 62 XXXVI. 'Long live Michael,' they cried, 'our brave Acadian minstrel!' As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession." Jane E. Benham. 65 XXXVII. " With horses and guides, and companions, Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies." Birket Foster. 70 XXXVIII. ; Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark mountains, Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him." Birket Foster. 71 XXXIX. " Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village, Knelt the Black Bobe chief with his children " Birket Foster. 76 XL. " In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's waters, Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle, Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded." Birket Foster. 80 XLI. "Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman repeated Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city, High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper." Birket Foster. XLII. XLIII. XLIV, Day after day, in the grey of the dawn, as slow through the suburbs Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the market, Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings." Jane E. Benham. S3 "Through the hush that succeeded Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like, 'Gabriel! O my beloved !' and died away into silence." Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping, Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard, In the heart of the city." Jane E. Benham. 87 Birket Foster. 88 ■ Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun, And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story." Birket Foster. 89 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Vll VOICES OF THE NIGHT. XLVI. " Beneath, some patriarchal tree I lay upon the ground." XLVII. " I heard the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls ! " XLVIII. " And the mother gave, in tears and pain, The flowers she most did love." XLIX. Country Church-yard. L. "There is no light in earth or heaven, But the cold light of stars." LI. Flowers. LII. '• Then, too, the Old Year dieth, And the forests utter a moan." s'ED BY PAGE Birket Foster. 94 Jane E. Benham. 98 Jane E. Benham. 102 Birket Foster. 103 Birket Foster. 104 Jane E. Benham. 108 Birket Foster. 11* THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE. LIII. " A vessel as goodly, and strong, and staunch, As ever weathered a wintry sea ! " LIV. "Beside the Master, when he spoke, A youth, against an anchor leaning." LV. "And when the hot, long day was o'er, The young man at the Master's door Sat with the maiden calm and still." LVI. "And around the boughs and along the side The heavy hammers and mallets plied." LVTI. "With one exulting, joyous bound, She leaps into the ocean's arms ! " LVIII. " Lonely and lovely, a single star Lights the air with a dusky glimmer." LIX. " Saw a fair and stately galley, Steering onward to the land." LX. " A little face at the window Peers out into the night," LXI. "The twilight is sad and cloudy, The wind blows wild and free." LXII. " The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry, A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day." Birket Foster. 121 Birket Foster. 125 Birket Foster. 128 Birket Foster. 130 Birket Foster.' 1< Birket Foster. 139 Birket Foster. HO Jane E. Benham. 142 Birket Foster. 143 Birket Foster. A* 146 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. LXIII. "In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, By guardian angels led." LXIY. "Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth Held close in her caress." LXV. I saw the nursery windows Wide open to the air." LXVI. " So sat they once at Christmas, And bade the goblet pass." LXVII. " The first a youth, with soul of fire, Held in his hand a golden lyre." LXVIII. " The second, with a bearded face. Stood singing in the market place." LXIX. "A gray, old man, the third and last, Sang in cathedrals dim and vast." LXX. " Like the beloved John. To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast." POEMS ON SLAVEBY. LXXT. Dr. Channing. LXXII. "And then at furious speed he rode Along the Niger's bank." LXXIII. "He crouched in the rank and tangled grass, Like a wild beast in his lair." LXXIV. " The Slaver in the broad lagoon La)- moored with idle sail." I'l >ll.M-:U IjY TAGE Jane E. Benham. 156 Birkkt Foster. 160 Biuret Foster. 162 E. Weniiert. 172 E. Wenhert. 173 E. Wenhert. 174 176 Bikkkt Foster. 181 Biuret Foster. 185 Birkkt Foster. 189 BALLADS, SONGS, AND SONNETS. LXXV. LXXVI. LXX VII. LXXVIII. LXXIX. LXXX. Round Tower at Newport. " Then launched they to the blast, Bent like a reed each mast." " And in the forest's shade Our vows were plighted." "The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a dreary wreck." " At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast." " From the tumbling surf, that buries The Orknevan skerries." Birkkt Foster. 195 Birkkt Foste BlRKET FOSTKU. 200 Birket Foster. 204 BlRKET FOSIER. 208 Birkkt Foster. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. LXXXI. LXXXII. LXXXIII. LXXXIV. LXXXV. LXXXVL Once Prince Frederick's Guard Sang- them in their smoky barracks." On his tomb tbe birds were feasted By the children of the choir." : Old Silenus, bloated, drunken, Led by his inebriate Satyrs." ' There groups of merry children played, There youths and maidens dreaming strayed." Autumn. Dante : from the fresco by Giotto. DESIGNED BY Biuret Foster. 217 Jane E.Benham. 219 Birket Foster. Birket Foster. 221 225 228 EARLIER POEMS. LXXXVII. " Inverted in tne tide, Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw." Birket Foster. 233 LXXXVIII. " And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail." Birket Foster. 235 LXXXIX. "O'er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert woods." Birket Foster. 238 XC. " And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills, Was ringing to the merry shout, That faint and far the glen setout." XCI. XCTI. XCI II. xcv. XCVL XCVII. "In the green valley, where the silver brook, From its full laver, pours the white cascade." "And a band Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, Came winding down beside the wave, To lay the red chief in his grave." " And swift an arrow cleaved its way To his stern heart ! " MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. " Under a spreading chesnut tree The village smithy stands." ' ' He hears his daughter's voice Singing in the village choir." '•The rising moon has hid the stars." Diana. Birket Foster. 242 Birket Fosier. 243 Birket Foster. 246 Birket Foster. 248 Birket Fosier. 251 Birket Foster. 253 Birket Foster. 254 Jane E.Benham. 25G LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. XCVIII. " The sun is bright, the air is clear, The darting swallows soar and sing." XCIX. "Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth." C. " This is the field and Acre of our God, This is the place, where human harvests grow !" CI. "River ! that in silence windest Through the meadows, bright and free." CII. " Gazing, with a timid glance, On the brooklet's swift advance, On the river's broad expanse!" CIII. " A voice replied, far up the height, Excelsior!" CIV. " In the market place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown." CV. "This is the place. Stand still, my steed, Let me review the scene." C VI. House of Albrecht Durer, CVII. Albrecht Durer, from the portrait by himself. CVIII. " In his chamber, weak and dying, Was the Norman baron lying." CIX. " In the hall, the serf and vassal Held, at night, their Christmas wassail." CX. "Near at hand, From under the sheltering trees, The farmer sees His pastures, and his fields of grain." CXI. " With what a look of proud command Thou shakest in thy little hand The coral rattle with its silver bells." CXII. Residence of H. W. Longfellow, (formerly occupied by Washington.) CXIII. "Thou comest back to parley with repose." CXIV. " The moon was pallid, but not faint ; And beautiful as some fair saint." CXV. " I stood on the bridge at midnight." CXVI. " Dark grow the windows, And quenched is the fire." DESIGNED til PAGE Birket Foster. 259 Birket Foster. 260 Birket Foster. 262 Birket Foster. 263 Jane E. Benham. 269 Jane E. Benham. 272 Birket Foster. 277 Birket Foster. 280 Birket Foster. 284. 288 Biuret Foster. 289 Birket Foster. 290 Birket Foster. 293 Jane E. Benham. 298 Birket Foster. 300 Jane E. Benham. 302 Jane E. Benham. 307 Birket Foster. 309 Birket Foster, oil EVANGELINE PART THE FIRST. 2 EVANGELINE. This is the forest primeval ; but where are the hearts that beneath it Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman ? Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers, — Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands, Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven ? Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers for ever departed ! Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean. Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand Pre. Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient, Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion, List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest ; List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy. I. In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas, Distant, secluded, still, the little Tillage of Grand Pre Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward, Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number. Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labour incessant, Shut out the turbulent tides ; but at stated seasons the flood-gates Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows. West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields, Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain ; and away to the northward Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended. 4 EVANGELINE. There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village. Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of chesnut, Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries. Thatched were the roofs, with dormer windows; and gables projecting Over the basement below protected and shaded the door-way. There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset Lighted the village street, and guilded the vanes on the chimneys, Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps, and in kirtles Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidens. Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them. Reverend walked he among them ; and uprose matrons and maidens, Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome. Then came the labourers home from the field, and serenely the sun sank Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfry Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending, Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment. Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers, — Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free from Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics. Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows ; EVANGELINE. 5 But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the owners ; There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance. Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas, Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand Pre, Dwelt on his goodly acres ; and with him, directing his household, Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village. Stalwart and stately in form was the man of seventy winters ; Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes ; White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak leaves. Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers. Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside, Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses ! Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows. When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah ! fair in sooth was the maiden. Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them, Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal, Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings, Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heir-loom, Handed down from mother to child, through long generations. But a celestial brightness — a more ethereal beauty — EVANGELINE, Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession, Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her. When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music. Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea ; and a shady Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it. lludely carved was the porch, with seats beneath ; and a foot-path EVANGELINE. Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow. Under the sycamore tree were hives overhung by a pent-house, Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the road-side, Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary. Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses. Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the farm-vard. 8 EVANGELINE. There stood the broad- wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the harrows ; There were the folds for the sheep ; and there, in his feathered seraglio, Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsame Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter. Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each one Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase, Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft. There too the dovecot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates Murmuring ever of love ; while above in the variant breezes Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation. Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand Pre Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household. EVANGELINE. Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his missal, Fixed his eyes upon her, as the saint of his deepest devotion ; Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment ! Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended, And as he knocked, and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps, Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron ; Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the Tillage, Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered c 10 EVANGELINE. Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music. But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome ; Gabriel Lajeunnesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith, Who was a mighty man in the village, and honoured of all men ; For since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations, Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people. Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from earliest childhood Grew up together as brother and sister ; and Father Felician, EVANGELINE. 11 Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the plain- song. But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed, Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith. There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything, Nailing the shoe in its place ; while near him the tire of the cart-wheel Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders. Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and crevice, "Warm by the forge within they watched the labouring bellows, And as its pantings ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes, Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel. 12 EVANGELINE. Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle, Down the hill-side bounding, they glided away o'er the meadow. Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters, Seeking with eager eyes that w^ondrous stone, which the swallow Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings ; Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow ! Thus passed a few. swift years, and they no longer were children. He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning, Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened thought into action. She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman. " Sunshine of Saint Eulalie" was she called ; for that was the sunshine Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples ; She, too, would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance, Filling it full of loye and the ruddy faces of children. EVANGELINE. II. Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer, And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters. Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound, Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands. Harvests were gathered in ; and wild with the winds of September Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel. All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement. Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honey Till the hives overflowed ; and the Indian hunters asserted Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes. Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful season, Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints 14 EVANGELINE. Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light ; and the land- scape Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood. Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended. Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards, Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons, All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sun Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapours around him, While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow, Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forest Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels. Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness. Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the home-stead. Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other, And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening. Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer, Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar, Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection. Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the sea-side, Where was their favourite pasture. Behind them followed the watch-dog. EVANGELINE. 15 Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct, Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers ; Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept ; their protector, When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves howled. Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes, Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odour. Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks, While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles, Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson, Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms. 16 EVANGELINE. Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their ndders Unto the milkmaid's hand ; whilst loud and in regular cadence Into the sounding pail the foaming streamlets descended. Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard, Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness ; Heavily closed, with a creaking sound, the valves of the barn-doors, Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent. In-doors, warm by the wide-mouth fireplace, idly the farmer Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the flames and the smoke- wreaths Struggled together like foes in a burning city. Behind him, Nodding and mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic, Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness. Faces clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chair Laughed in the nickering light, and the pewter plates on the dresser Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine. Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas, Such, as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards. Close at her father's side was the gentle Evangeline seated, Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the corner behind her. Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle, While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe, Followed the old man's song, and united the fragments together. As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases. EVANGELINE. 17 Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altar, So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock clicked, Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted, Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges. Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith, And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him. " Welcome ! " the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the threshold. " Welcome, Basil, my friend ! Come, take thy place on the settle Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee ; Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco ; Never so much thyself art thou, as when, through the curling Smoke of the pipe or the forge, thy friendly and jovial face gleams, Round and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes." Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the Blacksmith, Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside : — " Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad ! Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filled with Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them. Happy art thou, as* if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe." Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him, And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued : — " Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchors Ride in the Gasperau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against us. What their design may be is unknown ; but all are commanded On the morrow to meet in the church, where His Majesty's mandate D 18 EVANGELINE. "Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas ! in the meantime Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people." Then made answer the farmer: — " Perhaps some friendlier purpose Brings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in England By the untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted, And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children." " Not so thinkcth the folk in the village," said, warmly, the blacksmith, Shaking his head, as in doubt ; then, heaving a sigh, he continued: — EVANGELINE. 19 " Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Sejour, nor Port Royal. Man} r already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts, Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow. Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds ; Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of the mower." Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer : — " Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our corn fields, Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean, Than were our father in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon. Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrow Fall on this house and hearth ; for this is the night of the contract. Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads of the village Strongly have built them and well ; and, breaking the glebe round about them, Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth. Rene Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkhorn. Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children ? " As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover's, Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken, And as they died on his lips the worthy notary entered. EVANGELINE, III. Bent like a labouring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean, Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public ; Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung Over his shoulders ; his forehead was high ; and glasses with horn bows Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal. Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick. EVANGELINE. o| Four long years in the times of the war had he languished a captive, Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the English. Now, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion, Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike. He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children ; For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest, And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses, And of the white Letiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children ; And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable, And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nut-shell, And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved clover and horseshoes, With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village. Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith, Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand, " Father Leblanc," he exclaimed, " Thou hast heard the talk in the village, And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their errand." Then with modest demeanour made answer the notary public : — " Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser ; And what their errand may be I know not better than others. Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intention Brings them here, for we are at peace ; and why then molest us ? " " God's name ! " shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible black- smith : n . EVANGELINE. "Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the wherefore? Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest ! " But, without heeding his warmth, continued the notary public: — " Man is unjust, but God is just ; and finally justice Triumphs ; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me, When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal." This was the old man's favourite tale, and he loved to repeat it Whenever neighbours complained that any injustice was done them. " Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember, Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Justice Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand, And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people. Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance, Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them. But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted ; Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the mighty Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman's palace That a necklace of pearls was lost, and ere long a suspicion Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household. She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold, Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice. As to her father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended, Lo ! o'er the city a tempest rose ; and the bolts of the thunder Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand EVANGELINE. 23 Down on the pavement below the clattering- scales of the balance, And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a Magpie, Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven." Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the blacksmith Stood like a man who fain would speak, but fmdeth no language ; And all his thoughts congealed into lines on his face, as the vapours Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter. Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table, Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewed Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand Pre ; While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and ink-horn, Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties, Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle. Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed. And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin. Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table Three times the old man's fee in solid pieces of silver ; And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bridegroom, Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare. Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed, While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside, Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner. Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old men Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuvre ; EVANGELINE. Id Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the king-row. Meanwhile, apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure, Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the meadows. Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven. Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels. Thus passed the evening away. Anon the bell from the belfry Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway Rose the guests and departed ; and silence reigned in the household. EVANGELINE. 25 Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the doorstep Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with gladness. Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearth-stone. And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer. Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed. Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness, 26 EVANGELINE. Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden. Silent she passed through the hall, and entered the door of her chamber. Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white and its clothes-press Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven. This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in marriage, Better than nocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a housewife. Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlight Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart of the maiden Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean. Ah ! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber ! Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard, "Waited her lover, and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her shadow. Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadness Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlight Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment. And as she gazed from the window she saw serenely the moon pass Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps, As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar ! EVANGELINE. IV. Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand Pre. Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas, Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor. Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labour 28 EVANGELINE. Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning. Now from the country around, from the farms and the neighbouring hamlets, Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants. Many a glad good morrow and jocund laugh from the young folk Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows, Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the greensward, Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the highway. Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labour were silenced. EVANGELINE. 29 Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at the house-doors Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossipped together. Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted ; For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together, All things were held in common, and what one had was another's. Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant : For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father ; Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladness Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it. Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard, Bending with golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal. There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary seated ; There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith. Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives, Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waistcoats. Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-white Hair, as it waved in the wind ; and the jolly face of the fiddler Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers. Gaily the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle, Tons les Bourgeois de Chartres, and Le Carillon de Dunkerqne, And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music. 30 EVANGELINE. Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows ; Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them. Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter! Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith ! So passed the morning away. And lo, with a summons sonorous Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat. Thronged ere long was the church with men. Without, in the church -yard, EVANGELINE. 31 Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the head -stones Garlands of autumn leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest. Then came the guard from the ships, and, marching proudly among them, Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangour Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement,— Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers. Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar. Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission. " You are convened this day," he said, "by His Majesty's orders, 32 EVANGELINE. Clement and kind has he been; but how you have answered his kindness Let your own hearts reply ! To my natural make and my temper Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous. Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch ; Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds Forfeited be to the crown ; and that you yourselves from this province Be transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell there Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people ! Prisoners now I declare you ; for such is His Majesty's pleasure ! " As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer, Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones Beats down the farmer's corn in the field and shatters his windows, Hiding the sun and strewing the ground with thatch from the house-roofs', Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures; So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker. Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then rose Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger, And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the door-way. Vain was the hope of escape ; and cries and fierce imprecations ' Rang through the house of prayer ; and high o'er the heads of the others Hose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith, As on a stormy sea a spar is tossed by the billows. Flushed was his face and distorted with passion ; and wildly he shouted "Down with the tyrants of England! we never have sworn them allegiance ! EVANGELINE. 33 Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our harvests ! " More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldier Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement. In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention, Lo ! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar. Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence All that clamorous throng ; and thus he spake to his people ; Deep were his tones and solemn ; in accents measured and mournful Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly the clock strikes. "What is this that ye do, my children? what madness has seized you ? Forty years of my life have I laboured among you, and taught you, Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another ! Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations ? Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness ? This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profane it Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred ? Lo ! where the crucified Christ from his cross is gazing upon you ! See ! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion ! Hark ! how those lips still repeat the prayer — ' O Father forgive them ! ' Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us, Let us repeat it now, and say, ' Father, forgive them ! ' " Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people F 34 EVANGELINE. Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded that passionate outbreak ; And they repeated his prayer, and said, " Father, forgive them!" Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from the altar. Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people responded, Not with their lips alone, but their hearts ; and the Ave Maria Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with devotion translated, Rose on the ardour of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven. Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on all sides Wandered, wailing, from house to house, the women and children. Long at her father's door Evangeline stood, with her right hand Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, descending, Lighted the village street with mysterious splendour, and roofed each Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windows. Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table; There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey, fragrant with wild flowers ; There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought from the dairy ; And at the head of the board the great arm-chair of the farmer. Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as the sunset Threw the long shadows of trees o'er the broad ambrosial meadows. EVANGELINE. 35 Ah ! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen, And from the fields of her sonl a fragrance celestial ascended,— Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and patience! Then, all forgetful of self, she wandered into the village, Cheering with looks and words the disconsolate hearts of the women, As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed, 36 EVANGELINE. Urged by their household cares, and the weary feet of their children Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapours Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai. Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded. Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lingered. All was silent within ; and in vain at the door and the windows Stood she, and listened and looked, until, overcome by emotion, " Gabriel," cried she, aloud, with tremulous voice; but no answer Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living. Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her father. Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board stood the supper un tasted, Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms of terror. Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber. In the dead of the night she heard the whispering rain fall Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore tree by the window. Keenly the lightning flashed ; and the voice of the echoing thunder Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the world he created ! Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of heaven ; Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered till morning. EVANGELINE. oT V. Four times the sun had risen and set ; and now on the fifth day Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house. Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession, Came from the neighbouring hamlets and farms the Acadian women, Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore, 38 EVANGELINE. Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings, Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland. Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen, While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings. Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried ; and there on the sea-beach, Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants. All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply ; All day long the wains came labouring down from the village. Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting, Echoing far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard. Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doors Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers. Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country, Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and way-worn, So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters. Foremost the young men came ; and, raising together their voices, Sang they with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions : — " Sacred heart of the Saviour ! inexhaustible fountain ! Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience ! " Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the wayside, Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed. EVANGELINE. 39 Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence, Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction,— Calmly and sadly waited, until the procession approached her, And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion. Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him, Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder, and whispered,— " Gabriel ! be of good cheer ; for if we love one another, Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen ! " Smiling she spake these words ; then suddenly paused, for her father Saw she slowly advancing. Alas ! how changed was his aspect! Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and his footstep Heavier seemed with the weight of the weary heart in his bosom. But, with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him, Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not. Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession. There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking. Busily plied the freighted boats ; and in the confusion Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their children Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties. So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried, While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father. Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight Deepened and darkened around ; and in haste the refluent ocean 10 EVANGELINE Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed. Farther back, in the midst of the household goods and the wagons, Like to a gipsy camp, or a leagner after a battle, All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them, Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers. Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean, Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors. Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures ; Sweet was the moist still air with the odour of milk from their udders ; Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farmyard, — Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid. EVANGELINE. 41 Silence reigned in the streets ; from the church no Angelus sounded. Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows. But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled, Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest. Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered, Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children. Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish, Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering, Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore. Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father, And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man, Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion , E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken. Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him, Vainly offered him food ; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake not, But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire light. " Benedicite /" murmured the priest, in tones of compassion. More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accents Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold, Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow. Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden, G 42 EVANGELINE. Raising his eyes, full of tears, to the silent stars that above them Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals. Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence. Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood -red Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow, Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows together. Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village, EVANGELINE. 43 Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that lay in the road- stead. Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr. Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting, Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-tops Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled. These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard. Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish, "We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand Pre !" Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards, Thinking the day had dawned ; and anon the lowing of cattle Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted. Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska, When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind, Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river. Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horses Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o er the meadows. 44 EVANGELINE. Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maiden Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them ; And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion, Lo! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the sea-shore Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed. Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror. Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom. Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber : And when she awoke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her. Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon her, Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion. Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape, Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her, And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses. Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people, — " Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier season Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile, Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard." Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the seaside, Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches, But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand Pre. And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow, EVANGELINE. 45 Lo ! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation, Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges. 'T was the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean, With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward. Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking ; And with the ebb of that tide the ships sailed out of the harbour, Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins. < J-^ PART THE SECOND Many a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand Pre, When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed, Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into exile, Exile without an end, and without an example in story. 48 EVANGELINE. Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians landed ; Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from the north-east Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the banks of New- foundland. Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to city, From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern savannahs, — From the bleak shores of the sea to the land where the Father of Waters Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean, Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of the mammoth. Friends they sought and homes ; and many, despairing, heart-broken , Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a fireside. Written their history stands on tablets of stone in the churchyards. Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered, Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things. Fair was she and young ; but, alas ! before her extended, Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its pathway Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and suffered before her, Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and abandoned, As the emigrant's way o'er the western desert is marked by Camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sunshine. Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfinished ; As if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine, Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen. Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever within her, EVANGELINE. 41) Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit, She would commence again her endless search and endeavour ; Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the crosses and tomb- stones, Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its bosom He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him. Sometimes a rumour, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper, Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward. Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and known him, But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten. " Gabriel Lajeunesse ! " said they ; " O, yes ! we have seen him. He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the prairies ; Coureurs-des-Bois are they, and famous hunters and trappers." " Gabrielle Lajeunesse ! " said others; " O, yes ! we have seen him. He is a Voyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana." Then would they say, — " Dear child ! why dream and wait for him longer? Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel ? others Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal ? Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary's son, who has loved thee Many a tedious year ; come, give him thy hand and be happy ! Thou art too fair to be left to braid Saint Catherine's tresses." Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly, — " I cannot ! Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not elsewhere. For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the pathway Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness." 50 EVANGELINE. And thereupon the priest, her friend and father-confessor, Said, with a smile, — " Oh, daughter ! thy God thus speaketh within thee! Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted ; If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment; That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain, Patience ; accomplish thy lahour ; accomplish thy work of affection ! Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike. Therefore accomplish thy lahour of love, till the heart is made godlike, Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of heaven !" Cheered hy the good man's words, Evangeline laboured and waited. Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean, But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered " Despair not ! " Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless discomfort, Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of existence. Let me essay, O Muse ! to follow the wanderer's footsteps ; — Not through each devious path, each changeful year of existence ; But as a traveller follows a streamlet's course through the valley : Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its water Here and there, in some open space, and at intervals only ; Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan glooms that conceal it, Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur ; Happy, at length, if he find the spot where it reaches an outlet. EVANGELINE. II. It was the month of May. Far down the Beautiful River, Past the Ohio shore, and past the mouth of the Wabash, Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi, Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boatmen. It was a band of exiles, a raft, as it were, from the shipwrecked Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating together, Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common misfortune ; Men and women and children, who, guided by hope or by hearsay, Sought for their kith and their kin among the few-acred farmers On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Opelousas. With them Evangeline went, and her guide, the Father Felician. Onward, o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness sombre with forests, 52 EVANGELINE. Day after day they glided adown the turbulent river ; Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its borders. Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, where plumelike Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the current, Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sand-bars Lay in the stream, and along the t wimpling waves of their margin, Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of pelicans waded. |pvv I^vel the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river, Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant gardens, Stood the houses of planters, with negro cabins and dove-cots. They were approaching the region where reigns perpetual summer, Where through the golden coast, and groves of orange and citron, Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward. They, too, swerved from their course ; and, entering the Bayou of Plaquemine, EVANGELINE. Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious waters, Which, like a network of steel, ex- tended in every direction. Over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs of the cypress Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid air Waved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient cathedrals. Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, save by the herons Home to their roosts in the cedar- trees returning at sunset, Or by the owl as he greeted the moon with demoniac laughter. Lovely the moonlight was as it | glanced and gleamed on the water, * Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sustaining the arches, K Down through whose broken vaults it fell as through chinks in a ruin. Dreamlike, andindistinct, and strange f were all things around them ; And o'er their spirits there came a feeling of wonder and sadness, — Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot be compassed. i'W 54 EVANGELINE. As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of the prairies, Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking mimosa, So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings of evil, Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom has attained it. But Evangeline's heart was sustained by a vision, that faintly Floated before her eyes, and beckoned her on through the moonlight. It was the thought of her brain that assumed the shape of a phantom. Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel wandered before her, And every stroke of the oar now brought him nearer and nearer. Then in his place at the prow of the boat, rose one of the oarsmen, And, as a signal sound, if others like them peradventure. Sailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew a blast on his bugle. Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors leafy the blast rang, Breaking the seal of silence, and giving tongues to the forest. Soundless above them the banners of moss just stirred to the music. Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance, Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant branches ; But not a voice replied ; no answer came from the darkness ; And when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence. Then Evangeline slept; but the boatmen rowed through the midnight ; Silent at times, and then singing familiar Canadian boat-songs, Such as they sang of old on their own Acadian rivers. And through the night were heard the mysterious sounds of the desert, Far off, indistinct, as of wave or wind in the forest, Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar of the grim alligator. EVANGELINE. 55 Thus ere another noon they emerged from those shades ; and before them Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchafalaya. Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undulations Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotus Lifted her golden crown above the heads of the boatmen. Faint was the air with the odorous breath of magnolia blossoms, And with the heat of noon ; and numberless silvan islands, 56 EVANGELINE. • i *mg*!&p& Fragrant and thickly embowered with blossoming hedges of roses, Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to slumber. Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were suspended. Under the boughs of Wachita willows that grew by the margin, Safely their boat was moored ; and scattered about on the greensward, Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travellers slumbered. Over them vast and high extended the cope of a cedar. Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower and the grape-vine Hung their ladder of ropes aloft, like the ladder of Jacob, On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, descending, Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from blossom to blossom. Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slumbered beneath it. Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of an opening heaven Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial. EVANGELINE. Nearer and ever nearer, among the numberless islands, Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water, Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trappers. Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and beaver. At the helm sat a youth, with coun- tenance thoughtful and careworn. Dark and neglected locks oversha- dowed his brow, and a sadness Somewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly written. Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy and restless, Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and of sorrow. Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the island. But by the opposite bank, and be- hind a screen of palmettoes, So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the willows, And undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and unseen, were the sleepers ; Angel of God was there none to awaken the slumbering maiden. 57 ■y*%^ ,-*.." 58 EVANGELINE. Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a eloud on the prairie. After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died in the distance, As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and the maiden Said with a sigh to the friendly priest, — " O Father Felician ! Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel wanders. Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague superstition ? Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to my spirit ?" Then, with a blush, she added, — " Alas for my credulous fancy ! Unto ears like thine such words as these have no meaning." But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as he answered, — " Daughter, thy words are not idle ; nor are they to me without meaning. Feeling is deep and still ; and the word that floats on the surface Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden. Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions. Gabriel truly is near thee; for not far away to the southward, On the banks of the Teche, are the towns of St. Maur and St. Martin. There the long- wandering bride shall be given again to her bridegroom, There the long-absent pastor regain his flock and his sheepfold. Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of fruit-trees ; Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest of heavens Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls of the forest. They who dwell there have named it the Eden of Louisiana." And with these words of cheer they arose and continued their journey. Softly the evening came. The sun from the w r cstern horizon Like a magician extended his golden wand o'er the landscape ; EVANGELINE. 59 Twinkling vapours arose ; and sky and water and forest Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together. Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver, Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless water. Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweetness. Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feeling Glowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters around her. Then from a neighbouring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of singers, Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water, Shook from his little throat such floods of dilirious music, That the whole air, and the woods, and the waves, seemed silent to listen. Plaintive at first were the tones and sad ; then soaring to madness Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes. Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation ; Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision. As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-tops Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches. With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed with emotion, Slowly they entered the Teche, where it flows through the green Opelousas, And through the amber air, above the crest of the woodland, Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neighbouring dwelling ;— Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing of cattle. EVANGELINE. dg&sm-m in. Near to the bank of the river, o'ershadowed by oaks, from whose branches Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe flaunted, Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets at Yule-tide, Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herdsman. A garden Girded it round about with a belt of luxuriant blossoms, Filling the air with fragrance. The house itself was of timbers EVANGELTNE. 61 Hewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully fitted together. Large and low was the roof; and on slender columns supported, Rose-wreathed, vine- encircled, a broad and spacious veranda, Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended around it. At each end of the house, amid the flowers of the garden, Stationed the dove-cotes were, as love's perpetual symbol, Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions of rivals. Silence reigned o'er the place. The line of shadow and sunshine Ran near the tops of the trees ; but the honse itself was in shadow, And from its chimney-top, ascending and slowly expanding Into the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke rose. In the rear of the house, from the garden-gate, ran a pathway Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of the limitless prairie, Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly descending. Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy canvas Hanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm in the tropics, Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grape-vines. Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie, Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups, Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of deerskin. Broad and brown was the face that from under the Spanish sombrero Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its master. Round about him were numberless herds of kin e, that were grazing Quietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapoury freshness 63 EVANGELINE. That uprose from the river, and spread itself over the landscape. Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and expanding Fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that resounded Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air of the evening, Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the cattle Rose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of ocean . Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed o'er the prairie, And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in the distance. EVANGELINE. 63 Then, as the herdsman turned to the house, through the gate of the garden Saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing to meet him. Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and forward Rushed with extended arms and exclamations of wonder ; When they beheld his face, they recognised Basil the blacksmith. Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the garden. There in an arbour of roses with endless question and answer Gave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their friendly embraces, Laughing and weeping by turns ; or sitting silent and thoughtful. Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not; and now dark doubts and misgivings Stole o'er the maiden's heart ; and Basil, somewhat embarrassed Broke the silence and said, — " If you came by the Atchafalaya, How have yon nowhere encountered my Gabriel's boat on the bayous?" Over Evangeline's face at the words of Basil a shade passed. Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous accent, — "Gone? is Gabriel gone?" and, concealing her face on his shoulder, All her o'erburdened heart gave way, and she wept and lamented. Then the good Basil said, — and his voice grew blithe as he said it, — "Be of good cheer, my child ; it is only to-day he departed. Foolish boy ! he has left me alone with my herds and iny horses. Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, his spirit 64 EVANGELINE. Could no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence. Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever, Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles, He at length had become so tedious to men and to maidens, Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me, and sent him Unto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the Spaniards. Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark Mountains, Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the beaver. Therefore be of good cheer ; we will follow the fugitive lover ; He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are against him. Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of the morning We will follow him fast, and bring him back to his prison." Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the river, Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Michael the fiddler. Long under Basil's roof had he lived like a god on Olympus, Having no other care than dispensing music to mortals. Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle. " Long live Michael," they cried, " our brave Acadian minstrel ! " As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession ; and straightway Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting the old man Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, enraptured, Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips, Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters. EVANGELINE. 6") Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the ci-devant blacksmith, All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal demeanour ; Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil arid the climate, And of the prairies, whose numberless herds were his who would take them ; Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do likewise. Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the airy veranda, J 6(3 EVANGELINE. Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of Basil Waited his late return ; and they rested and feasted together. Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended. All was silent without, and, illuming the landscape with silver, Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars ; but within doors, Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in the glimmering lamp-light. Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, the herdsman Poured forth his heart and his wine together in endless profusion. Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchitoches tobacco, Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as they listened : — " Welcome once more, my friends, who so long have been friendless and homeless, Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than the old one ! Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers ; Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the farmer. Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a keel through the water. All the year round the orange-groves are in blossom ; and grass grows More in a single night than a whole Canadian summer. Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the prairies ; Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and forests of timber With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into houses. After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with harvests, EVANGELINE. 67 No King George of England shall drive you away from your homesteads, Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing your farms and your cattle." Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his nostrils, And his huge, brawny hand came thundering down on the table, So that the guests all started ; and Father Felician astounded, Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff half-way to his nostrils. But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were milder and gayer : " Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware of the fever ! For it is not like that of our cold Acadian climate, Cured by wearing a spider hung round one's neck in a nutshell ! " Then there were voices heard at the door, and footsteps approaching Sounded upon the stairs and the floor of the breezy veranda. It was the neighbouring Creoles and small Acadian planters, Who had been summoned all to the house of Basil the Herdsman, Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and neighbours : Friend clasped friend in his arms ; and they who before were as strangers, Meeting in exile, became straightway as Mends to each other, Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country together. But in the neighbouring hall a strain of music, proceeding From the accordant strings of Michael's melodious fiddle, Broke up all further speech. Away, like children delighted, All tilings forgotten beside, they gave themselves to the maddening Whirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to the music, Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of fluttering garments. (i8 EVANGELINE. Meanwldle, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest and the herdsman Sat, conversing together of past and present and future ; While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within her Olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the music Heard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressible sadness Came o'er her heart, and unseen she stole forth into the garden. Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest, Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight, Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit. Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden Poured out their souls in odours, that were their prayers and confessions Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian.. Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night- dews, Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical moonlight Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings, As, through the garden gate, beneath the brown shade of the oak trees, Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie. Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers. Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens, Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship, Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple, EVANGELINE. 69 As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, " Upharsin." And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-flies, Wandered alone, and she cried, — " O Gabriel! O my beloved! Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee ? Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me ? Ah ! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie ! Ah ! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around me ! Ah ! how often beneath this oak, returning* from labour, Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers. When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee ? " Loud, and sudden, and near, the note of a whip-poorwill sounded Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighbouring- thickets, Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence. " Patience ! " whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of darkness ; And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, " To-morrow! " Bright rose the sun next-day; and all the flowers of the garden Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed his tresses With the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of crystal. " Farewell! " said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy threshold; "See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from his fasting and famine, And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom was coming." " Farewell ! " answered the maiden, and, smiling, with Basil descended Down to the river's brink, where the boatmen already were waiting. 70 EVANGELINE. Thus beginning their journey with morning, and sunshine, and gladness, Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was sx3eeding before them, Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over the desert. Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that succeeded, Found they trace of his course, in lake or forest or river, Nor, after many days, had they found him ; but vague and uncertain Rumours alone were their guides through a wild and desolate country ; Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of Adayes, Weary and worn, they alighted, and learnt from the garrulous landlord, That on the day before, with horses and guides and companions, Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies. \ EVANGELINE. Far in the West there lies a desert land, where the mountains Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and luminous summits. Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the gorge, like a gateway, Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant's waggon, Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway and Owyhee. 72 EVANGELINE. Eastward, with devious course, among the Wind-river Mountains, Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate leaps the Nebraska ; And to the south, from Fountaine-qui-bout and the Spanish sierras, Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the wind of the desert, Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend to the ocean. Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibrations. Spreading between these streams are the Avondrous, beautiful prairies, Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine, Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas. Over them wander the buffalo herds, and the elk, and the roebuck ; Over them wander the wolves, and herds of riderless horses ; Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary with travel ; Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael's children, Staining the desert with blood; and above their terrible war-trails Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vulture, Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle, By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens. Here and there rise smokes from the camps of these savage marauders ; Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift-running rivers ; And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert, Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brook-side, . And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven, Like the protecting hand of God inverted above them. Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Mountains, Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him. Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and Basil EVANGELINE. 73 Followed his flying steps, and thought each day to o'ertake him. Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his camp-fire Rise in the morning air from the distant plain ; but at nightfall, When they had reached the place, they found only embers and ashes. And, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies were weary, Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata Morgana Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated and vanished before them. Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently entered Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose features Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow. She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people, From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Camanches, Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des-Bois, had been murdered. Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and friendliest welcome Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the embers. But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his companions, Worn with the long day's march and the chase of the deer and the bison, Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the quivering fire-light Flashed on their swarthy checks, and their forms wrapt up in their blankets, K 74 EVANGELINE. Then at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat and repeated Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian accent, All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and reverses. Mnch Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another Hapless heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed. Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman's compassion, Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near her, She in turn related her love and all its disasters. Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had ended Still was mute ; but at length, as if a mysterious horror Passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of the Mowis ; Mo wis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden, But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam, Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine, Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the foregt. Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird incantation, Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a phantom, That, through the pines o'er her father's lodge, in the hush of the twilight, Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the maiden, Till she followed his green and waving plume through the forest, And never more returned, nor was seen again by her people. Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline listened To the soft flow of her magical w r ords, till the region around her Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest the enchantress. Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the moon rose, EVANGELTNE. 7o Lighting- the little tent, and with a mysterious splendour Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and filling the woodland. With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the branches Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible whispers. Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline's heart, but a secret, Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror, As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the swallow. It was no earthly fear. A breath from the region of spirits Seemed to float in the air of night ; and she felt for a moment That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom. And with this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had vanished. Early upon the morrow the march was resumed ; and the Shawnee Said, as they journeyed along, — " On the western slope of these mountains Dwells in his little village the Black Robe chief of the Mission. Much he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary and Jesus ; Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with pain, as they hear him." Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline answered, — " Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await us ! " Thither they turned their steeds ; and behind a spur of the mountains, Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices, And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river, Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit Mission. Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village, 76 EVANGELINE. Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children. A crucifix fastened High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grape-vines, Looked with its agonized face on the multitude kneeling beneath it. This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the intricate arches Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers, Mingling 1 its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the branches. EVANGELINE. 77 Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, nearer approaching, Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening devotions. But when the service was done, and the benediction had fallen Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands of the sower, Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers, and bade them Welcome ; and when they replied, he smiled with benignant expression, Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother-tongue in the forest, And with words of kindness conducted them into his wigwam. There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes of the maize-ear Feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water-gourd of the teacher. Soon was their story told ; and the priest with solemnity answered : — " Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, seated On this mat by my side, where now the maiden reposes, Told me this same sad tale ; then arose and continued his journey ! " Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent of kindness ; But on Evangeline's heart fell his words as in winter the snow-flakes Fall into some lone nest from which the birds have departed. " Far to the north he has gone," continued the priest ; " but in autumn When the chase is done, will return again to the Mission." Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive, — " Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad and afflicted." So seemed it wise and well unto all ; and betimes on the morrow, Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and companions, Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at the Mission. 78 EVANGELINE. Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each other, — Days, and weeks, and months ; and the fields of maize that were springing Green from the ground when a stranger she came, now waving above her, Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, and forming Cloisters for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged by squirrels. Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, and the maidens Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover, But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the corn-field. Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought not her lover. " Patience !" the priest would say ; " have faith, and thy prayer will be answered ! Look at this delicate plant that lifts its head from the meadow, See how its leaves all point to the north, as true as the magnet : It is the compass- flower, that the finger of God hath suspended Here on its fragile stalk, to direct the traveller's journey Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert. Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms of passion, Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance, But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odour is deadly. Only this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafter Crown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet with the dews of nepenthe." So came the autumn, and passed, and the winter, — yet Gabriel came not ; EVANGELINE. 79 Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of the robin and bine-bird Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet Gabriel came not. But on the breath of the summer winds a rumour was wafted Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odour of blossom. Far to the north and east, it said, in the Michigan forests, Gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the Saginaw river. And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of St. Lawrence, Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the Mission. When over weary ways, by long and perilous marches, She had attained at length the depths of the Michigan forests, Found she the hunter's lodge deserted and fallen to ruin ! Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and places Divers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden : — Now in the tents of grace of the meek Moravian Missions, Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of the army, Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities. Like a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered. Fail' was she and young, when in hope began the long journey ; Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended. Each succeeding year stole something away from her beauty, Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the shadow. Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of grey o'er her forehead, Dawn of another life, that broke o'er her earthly horizon^ As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning. 80 EVANGELINE. V. In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's waters, Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle, Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded. There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty, And the streets still reecho the names of the trees of the forest, As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested. There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile, Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country. EVANGELINE. 81 There old Rene Leblanc had died ; and when he departed, Saw at his side only one of all his hundred descendants. Something- at least there was in the friendly streets of the city, Something that spake to her heart, and made her no longer a stranger, And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the Quakers, For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country, Where all men were equal, and all were brothers and sisters. So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavour, Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining, Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and her footsteps. As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us, Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets, So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far below her, Dark no longer, but all illumined with love ; and the pathway Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the distance. Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image, Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him, Only more beautiful made by his death-like silence and absence. Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not. Over him years had no power; he was not changed, but transfigured ; He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent; Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others, This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her. So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous spices, Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma. L 82 EVANGELINE. Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour. Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy ; frequenting Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city, Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sunlight, Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected. Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman repeated Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city, High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper. EVANGELINE. Day after day, in the grey of the dawn, as slow through the suburbs Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the market, Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings. Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city, Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks of wild pigeons, 84 EVANGELINE. Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in their craws but an acorn. And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September, Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the meadow, So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural margin, Spread to a brackish lake the silver stream of existence. Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the oppressor ; But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger; — Only, alas ! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants, Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless. Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and wood- lands ; — Now the city surrounds it ; but still, with its gateway and wicket Meek, in the midst of splendour, its humble walls seem to echo Softly the words of the Lord : — " The poor ye always have with you." Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy. The dying Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendour, Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles, Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance, Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial, Into whose shining gates ere long their spirits would enter. Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and silent, Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse. Sweet on the summer air was the odour of flowers in the garden; And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them, EVANGELINE. 83 That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and beauty. Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the east wind, Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of Christ Church, And, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their church at AVicaco. Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the horn' on her spirit ; Something within her said, — " At length thy trials are ended;" And, with light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sickness. Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants, Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in silence Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their faces, Where on the pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the road-side. Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered, Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her presence Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison. And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler, Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it for ever. Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night-time ; Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers. Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder, Still she stood, with her colourless lips apart, while a shudder Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowrets dropped from her fingers, And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning. 86 EVANGELINE. Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish, That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows. On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man. Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that shaded his temples; But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood; So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying. Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever, As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its portals, That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over. Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the darkness, Darkness of slumber and death, for ever sinking and sinking. Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations, Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like, " Gabriel ! my beloved !" and died away into silence. Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood ; Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them, Village, and mountain, aud woodlands; and, walking under their shadow, As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision. Tears came into his eyes ; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids, Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside. Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken. EVANGELINE. Vainly he strove to rise ; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him, Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom. Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness, As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement. All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow, All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience! And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom, Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, " Father, I thank thee ! " EVANGELINE. Still stands the forest primeval ; but far away from its shadow, Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping-. Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard, In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed. Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them, Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and for ever, Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy, Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labours, Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey ! EVANGELINE. 89 Still stands the forest primeval; but under the shade of its branches Dwells another race, with other customs and language. Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom. In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy ; Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun, And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story, While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighbouring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. IVIZf.'SLUfS' VOICES OF THE NIGHT HoTVia, TroTvia vv'i,^ v-n-vodorsipa twp 'koXvkovojv fiporiov, 'EjOf^d^fv t-9v fioXe juoXe Karcnrrepo^ 'AyafiefJivoviov etI do/jov' v7ro yap akyiijjv, xnzo re ffuju^opctt,' d 101^6 fie^ y oi-^ofjie^a. EURIPIDES. w I' Pleasant it was, when woods were green, And winds were soft and low, To lie amid some sylvan scene, Where, the long drooping boughs between, Shadows dark and sunlight sheen Alternate come and go ; Or where the denser grove receives No sunlight from above, But the dark foliage interweaves 94 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. In one unbroken roof of leaves, Underneath whose sloping eaves The shadows hardly move. Beneath some patriarchal tree I lay upon the ground ; His hoary arms uplifted he, And all the broad leaves over me Clapped their little hands in glee, With one continuous sound ; — A slumberous sound, — a sound that brings The feelings of a dream, — As of innumerable wings, As, when a bell no longer swings, Faint the hollow murmur rings O'er meadow, lake, and stream. And dreams of that which cannot die, Bright visions, came to me, As lapped in thought I used to lie, And gaze into the summer sky, Where the sailing clouds went by, Like ships upon the sea ; Dreams that the soul of youth engage Ere Fancy has been quelled ; Old legends of the monkish page, Traditions of the saint and sage, Tales that have the rime of age, And chronicles of Eld. PRELUDE. 95 And, loving still these quaint old themes, Even in the city's throng I feel the freshness of the streams, That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams, Water the green land of dreams, The holy land of song. Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings The Spring, clothed like a bride, When nestling buds unfold their wings, And bishop's-caps have golden rings, Musing upon many things, I sought the woodlands wide. The green trees whispered low and mild ; It was a sound of joy ! They were my playmates when a child, And rocked me in their arms so wild ! Still they looked at me and smiled, As if I were a boy ; And ever whispered, mild and low, " Come be a child once more !" And waved their long arms to and fro, And beckoned solemnly and slow ; O, I could not choose but go Into the woodlands hoar ; Into the blithe and breathing air, Into the solemn wood, Solemn and silent everywhere ! I % VOICES OF THE NIGHT. Nature with folded hands seemed there, Kneeling at her evening prayer ! Like one in prayer I stood. Before me rose an avenue Of tall and sombrous pines ; Abroad their fan-like branches grew, And, where the sunshine darted through. Spread a vapour soft and blue, In long and sloping lines. And, falling on my weary brain, Like a fast-falling shower, The dreams of youth came back again ; Low lispings of the summer rain, Dropping on the ripened grain, As once upon the flow 7 er. Visions of childhood ! Stay, stay ! Ye were so sweet and wild ! And distant voices seemed to say, ' ; It cannot be ! They pass away ! Other themes demand thy lay ; Thou art no more a child ! " The land of Song within thee lies, Watered by living spr The lids of Fancy's sleepless ey Are gates unto that Paradise, Holy thoughts, like stars, arise, Its clouds are angels' wings. ring's ; res PltELUDE. 91 "Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be. Not mountains capped with snow, Nor forests sounding like the sea, Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly, Where the woodlands bend to see The bending heavens below. " There is a forest where the din Of iron branches sounds ! A mighty river roars between, And whosoever looks therein, Sees the heavens all black with sin, — Sees not its depths, nor bounds. " Athwart the swinging branches cast, Soft rays of sunshine pour ; Then comes the fearful wintry blast ; Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast ; Pallid lips say, ' It is past ! "VVe can return no more ! ' " Look, then, into thine heart, and write ! Yes, into Life's deep stream ! All forms of sorrow and delight, All solemn Voices of the Night, That can soothe thee, or affright, — Be these henceforth thy theme." HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 'AarTraairj, -piXXiarog. I heard the trailing- garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls ! I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls ! HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 99 I felt her presence, by its spell of might, Stoop o'er me from above ; The calm, majestic presence of the Night, As of the one I love. I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, The manifold, soft chimes, That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, Like some old poet's rhymes. From the cool cisterns of the midnight air My spirit drank repose ; The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, — From those deep cisterns flows. O holy Night ! from thee I learn to bear What man has borne before ! Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, And they complain no more. Peace ! Peace ! Orestes- like I breathe this prayer ! Descend with broad- winged flight, The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, The best-beloved Night. A PSALM OF LIFE. WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST, Tell me not in mournful numbers, " Life is. but an empty dream!" For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real ! Life is earnest ! And the grave is not its goal ; " Dust thou art, to dust returnest," Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way ; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! Be a hero in the strife ! THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 101 Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! Let the dead Past bury its dead ! Act, — act in the Hying Present ! Heart within, and God o'erhead ! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time ; Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us then be up and doing, With a heart for any fate ; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait. THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between. " Shall I have nought that is fair ?" saith he ; " Have nought but the bearded grain ? I will give them all back a gain. ' He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, He kissed their drooping leaves ; It was for the Lord of Paradise He bound them in his sheaves. THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 103 " My Lord has need of these flowerets gay," The Reaper said, and smiled ; " Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where He was once a child. " They shall all bloom in fields of light, Transplanted by my care, And saints, upon their garments white, These sacred blossoms wear." And the mother gave, in tears and pain, The flowers she most did love ; She knew she should find them all again In the fields of light above. O, not in cruelty, not in wrath, The Reaper came that day ; 'T was an angel visited the green earth, And took the flowers away. THE LIGHT OF STARS. The night is come, but not too soon And sinking silently, All silently, the little moon Drops down behind the sky. There is no light in earth or heaven, But the cold light of stars ; And the first watch of night is given To the red planet Mars. Is it the tender star of love ? The star of love and dreams ? no ! from that blue tent above, A hero's armour gleams. THE LIGHT OF STARS. 105 And earnest thoughts within me rise, When I behold afar, Suspended in the evening skies, The shield of that red star. star of strength ! I see thee stand And smile upon my pain ; Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand. And I am strong again. Within my breast there is no light, But the cold light of stars ; 1 give the first watch of the night* To the red planet Mars. The star of the unconquered will, He rises in my breast, Serene, and resolute, and still, And calm, and self-possessed. And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, That readest this brief psalm, As oite by one thy hopes depart, Be resolute and calm. O fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know ere long, Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong. FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. When the hours of Day are numbered, And the voices of the Night Wake the better soul, that slumbered, To a holy, calm delight ; Ere the evening lamps are lighted, And, like phantoms grim and tall, Shadows from the fitful fire-light Dance upon the parlour wall ; Then the forms of the departed Enter at the open door ; The beloved, the true-hearted, Come to visit me once more ; He, the young and strong, who cherished Noble longings for the strife, By the road-side fell and perishea, Weary with the march of life ! They, the holy ones and weakly, AVho the cross of suffering bore, Eolded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more ! FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. 107 And with them the Being Beauteous, Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine. And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies. Uttered not, yet comprehended, Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes in blessings ended, Breathing from her lips of air. O, though oft depressed and lonely, All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died ! VOICES OF THE NIGHT. Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Khine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden. Stars that in earth's firmament do shine. Stars they are, wherein we read our history, As astrologers and seers of eld; Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, Like the burning stars, which they beheld. Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, God hath written in those stars above ; But not less in the bright flowerets under us Stands the revelation of His love. Bright and glorious is that revelation, Written all over this great world of ours ; Making evident our own creation, In these stars of earth, — these golden flowers. FLOWERS. 101) And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part Of the self-same, universal being, Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, Buds that open only to decay; Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, Flaunting gayly in the golden light ; Large desires, with most uncertain issues, Tender wishes, blossoming at night ! These in flowers and men are more than seeming- Workings are they of the self-same powers, Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, Seeth in himself and in the flowers. Everywhere about us are they glowing, Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born ; Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing, Stand like Ruth amid the Golden corn ; Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, And in Summer's green-emblazoned field, But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing, In the centre of his brazen shield ; 110 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. Not alone in meadows and green alleys, On the mountain-top, and by the brink Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink ; Not alone in her vast dome of glory? Not on graves of bird and beast alone, But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone ; In the cottage of the rudest peasant, In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers ; In all places, then, and in all seasons, Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, How akin they are to human things. And with childlike, credulous affection We behold their tender buds expand; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land. THE BELEAGUERED CITY. I have read, in some old marvellous tale, Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of spectres pale Beleaguered the walls of Prague. Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, With the wan moon overhead, There stood, as in an awful dream, The army of the dead. White as a sea-fog, landward bound, The spectral camp was seen, And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, The river flowed between. No other voice nor sound was there, No drum, nor sentry's pace ; The mist-like banners clasped the ah', As clouds with clouds embrace. But, when the old cathedral bell Proclaimed the morning prayer, The white pavilions rose and fell On the alarmed air. 112 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. Down the broad valley fast and far The troubled army fled ; Up rose the glorious morning star, The ghastly host was dead. I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, That strange and mystic scroll, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Beleaguer the human soul. Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, In Fancy's misty light, Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam Portentous through the night. Upon its midnight battle-ground The spectral camp is seen, And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, Flows the River of Life between. No other voice, nor sound is there, In the army of the grave ; No other challenge breaks the air, But the rushing of Life's wave. And, when the solemn and deep church-bell Entreats the soul to pray, The midnight phantoms feel the spell, The shadows sweep away. MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. Down the broad Vale of Tears afar The spectral carnp is fled ; Faith shineth as a morning star, Our ghastly fears are dead. MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. Yes, the year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared ! Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks the old man by the beard, Sorely, — sorely ! The leaves are falling, falling, Solemnly and slow : " Caw ! caw ! " the rooks are calling, It is a sound of woe, A sound of woe ! Through woods and mountain passes The winds, like anthems, roll ; They are chanting solemn masses, Singing, " Pray for this poor soul, Pray, — pray ! " And the hooded clouds, like friars, Tell their beads in drops of rain, 114 VOICES OE THE NIGHT. And patter their doleful prayers ; — But their prayers are all in vain, All in vain ! There he stands in the foul weather, The foolish, fond Old Year, Crowned with wild flowers and with heather. Like weak, despised Lear, A king-,— a king ! Then comes the summer-like day, Bids the old man rejoice ! His joy ! his last ! O, the old man gray, Loveth that ever-soft voice, Gentle and low. To the crimson woods he saith, — To the voice gentle and low Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath, — " Pray do not mock me so ! Do not laugh at me ! " And now the sweet day is dead ; Cold in his arms it lies ; No stain from his breath is spread Over the glassy skies, No mist or stain ! Then, too, the Old Year dieth, And the forests utter a moan, MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. 115 Like the voice of one who crieth In the wilderness alone, " Vex not his ghost ! " Then comes, with an awful roar, Gathering and sounding on, The storm-wind from Labrador, The wind Euvoclydon, The storm-wind ! Howl ! howl ! and from the forest Sweep the red leaves away ! Would the sins that thou abhorrest, O Soul ! could thus decay, And be swept away ! For there shall come a mightier blast, There shall be a darker day ; And the stars, from heaven down-cast, Like red leaves be swept away ! Kyrie, eleyson ! Christe, eleyson ! ^■^ L' ENVOI. Ye voices, that arose After the Evening's close, And whispered to my restless heart repose ! Go, breathe it in the ear Of all who doubt and fear, And say to them, " Be of good cheer !" Ye sounds, so low and calm, That in the groves of balm Seemed to me like an angel's psalm ! Go, mingle yet once more With the perpetual roar Of the pine forest, dark and hoar ! Tongues of the dead, not lost, But speaking from death's frost, Like fiery tongues at Pentecost ! Glimmer, as funeral lamps, Amid the chills and damps Of the vast plain where Death encamps THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE. DEDICATION. As one who, walking in the twilight gloom, Hears round about him voices as it darkens, And seeing not the forms from which they come, Pauses from time to time, and turns and hearkens So walking here in twilight, O my friends ! I hear your voices softened by the distance, And pause, and turn to listen, as each sends His words of friendship, comfort, and assistance. If any thought of mine, or sung or told, Has ever given delight or consolation, Ye have repaid me back a thousand fold, By every friendly sign and salutation. Thanks for the sympathies that ye have shown ! Thanks for each kindly word, each silent token, That teaches me, when seeming most alone, Friends are around us, though no word be spoken. Kind messages, that pass from land to land ; Kind letters, that betray the heart's deep history, In which we feel the pressure of a hand, — One touch of fire, — and all the rest is mystery ! 120 DEDICATION. The pleasant books, that silently among Our household treasures take familiar places, And are to us as if a living tongue Spake from the printed leaves or pictured faces ! Perhaps on earth I never shall behold, With eye of sense, your outward form and semblance Therefore to me ye never will grow old, But live for ever young in my remembrance. Never grow old, nor change, nor pass away ! Your gentle voices will Aoav on for ever, When life grows bare and tarnished with decay, As through a leafless landscape flows a river. Not chance of birth or place has made us friends, Being oftentimes of different tongues and nations, But the endeavour for the self-same ends, With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations. Therefore I hope to join your seaside walk, Saddened, and mostly silent, with emotion ; Not interrupting with intrusive talk The grand, majestic symphonies of ocean. Therefore I hope, as no unwelcome guest, At your warm fireside, when the lamps are lighted, To have my place reserved among the rest, Nor stand as one unsought and uninvited. BY THE SEASIDE. THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. " Build me straight, O worthy Master ! Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel, That shall laugh at all disaster, And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! The merchant's word Delighted the Master heard ; For his heart was in his work, and the heart Giveth grace unto every Art. 122 BY THE SEASIDE. A quiet smile played round his lips, As the eddies and dimples of the tide Play round the bows of ships, That steadily at anchor ride. And with a voice that was full of glee, He answered, " Ere long we will launch A vessel as goodly, and strong, and staunch, As ever weathered a wintry sea ! " And first with nicest skill and art, Perfect and finished in every part, A little model the Master wrought, Which should he to the larger plan What the child is to the man, Its counterpart in miniature ; That with a hand more swift and sure The greater labour might be brought To answer to his inward thought. And as he laboured, his mind ran o'er The various ships that were built of yore, And above them all, and strangest of all Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall, Whose picture was hanging on the wall, With bows and stern raised high in air, And balconies hanging here and there, And signal lanterns and flags afloat, And eight round towers, like those that frown From some old castle, looking down Upon the drawbridge and the moat. THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 123 And he said with a smile, " Our ship, I wis, Shall he of another form than this ! " It was of another form, indeed ; Built for freight, and yet for speed, A beautiful and gallant craft ; Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast, Pressing down upon sail and mast, Might not the sharp bows overwhelm ; Broad in the beam, but sloping aft With graceful curve and slow degrees, That she might be docile to the helm, And that the currents of parted seas, Closing behind, with mighty force, Might aid and not impede her course. In the ship-yard stood the Master, With the model of the vessel, That should laugh at all disaster, And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! Covering many a rood of ground, Lay the timber piled around ; Timber of chesnut, and elm, and oak, And scattered here and there, with these, The knarred and crooked cedar knees ; Brought from regions far away, From Pascagoula's sunny bay, And the banks of the roaring Roanoke ! 124 THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE. Ah ! what a wondrous thing it is To note how many wheels of toil One thought, one word, can set in motion ! There's not a ship that sails the ocean, But every climate, every soil, Must bring its tribute, great or small, And help to build the wooden wall! The sun was rising o'er the sea, And long the level shadows lay, As if they, too, the beams would be Of some great airy argosy, Framed and launched in a single day. That silent architect, the sun, Had hewn and laid them every one, Ere the work of man was yet begun. Beside the Master, when he spoke, A youth, against an anchor leaning, Listened to catch his slightest meaning, Only the long waves as they broke In ripples on the pebbly beach, Interrupted the old man's speech. Beautiful they were, in sooth, The old man and the fiery youth ! The old man, in whose busy brain Many a ship that sailed the main Was modelled o'er and o'er again ; — The fiery youth, who was to be The heir of his dexterity, THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 125 The heir of his house, and his daughter's hand, When he had built and launched from land What the elder head had planned. " Thus," said he, " will we build this ship ! Lay square the blocks upon the slip, And follow well this plan of mine. Choose the timbers with greatest care ; Of all that is unsound beware ; 123 BY THE SEASIDE. For only what is sound and strong To this vessel shall belong. Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine Here together shall combine. A goodly frame, and a goodly fame, And the Union be her name ! For the day that gives her to the sea Shall give my daughter unto thee!" The Master's word Enraptured the young man heard ; And as he turned his face aside, With a look of joy and a thrill of pride, Standing before Her father's door, He saw the form of his promised bride. The sun shone on her golden hair, And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair, With the breath of morn and the soft sea air Like a beauteous barge was she, Still at rest on the sandy beach, Just beyond the billow's reach ; But he Was the restless, seething, stormy sea ! Ah, how skilful grows the hand That obeyeth Love's command ! It is the heart, and not the brain, That to the highest doth attain, THE BUILDING OF THE SHU'. And he who followeth Love's behest Far exceedeth all the rest ! Thus with the rising of the sun AVas the noble task begun, And soon throughout the ship-yard's bound.' Were heard the intermingled sounds Of axes and of mallets, plied With vigorous arms on every side : Plied so deftly and so well, That, ere the shadows of evening fell, The keel of oak for a noble ship, Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong, Was lying ready, and stretched along The blocks, well placed upon the slip. Happy, thrice happy, every one Who sees his labour well begun, And not perplexed and multiplied, By idly waiting for time and tide ! And when the hot, long day was o'er, The young man at the Master's door Sat with the maiden calm and still. And within the porch, a little more Removed beyond the evening chill, The father sat, and told them tales Of wrecks in the great September gales, Of pirates upon the Spanish Main, And ships that never came back again, BY THE SEASIDE, The chance and change of a sailor's life, Want and plenty, rest and strife, His roving fancy, like the wind, That nothing can stay and nothing can bind, And the magic charm of foreign lands, With shadows of palms, and shining sands, Where the tumbling surf, O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar, Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar, As he lies alone and asleep on the turf. THE BUTLDING OF THE SHIP. 129 And the trembling maiden held her breath At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea, "With all its terror and mystery, The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death, That divides and yet unites mankind ! And whenever the old man paused, a gleam From the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume The silent group in the twilight gloom, And thoughtful faces, as in a dream ; And for a moment one might mark W r hat had been hidden by the dark, That the head of the maiden lay at rest, Tenderly, on the young man's breast ! Day by day the vessel grew, With timbers fashioned strong and true, Stcmson and keelson and sternson-knee, Till, framed with perfect symmetry, A skeleton ship rose up to view ! And around the bows and along the side The heavy hammers and mallets plied, Till after many a week, at length, Wonderful for form and strength, Sublime in its enormous bulk, Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk ! And around it columns of smoke, upwreathing, Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething Caldron, that glowed, And overflowed With the black tar, heated for the shea thin"-. 130 HY THE SEASIDE. And amid the clamours Of clattering hammers, He who listened heard now and then The song- of the Master and his men : " Build me straight, O worthy Master, Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel, That shall laugh at all disaster, And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! With oaken brace and copper band, Lay the rudder on the sand, THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 131 That, like a thought, should have control Over the movement of the Avhole ; And near it the anchor, whose giant hand Would reach down and grapple with the land, And immovable and fast Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast ! And at the bows an image stood, By a cunning artist carved in wood, With robes of white, that far behind Seemed to be fluttering in the wind. It was not shaped in a classic mould, Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old, Or Naiad rising from the water, But modelled from the Master's daughter ! On many a dreary and misty night, T will be seen by the rays of the signal light, Speeding along through the rain and the dark, Like a ghost in its snow-white sark, The pilot of some phantom bark, Guiding the vessel, in its flight, By a path none other knows aright ! Behold, at last, Each tall and tapering mast Is swung into its place ; Shrouds and stays Holding it firm and fast ! Long ago, In the deer-haunted forests of Maine, When upon mountain and plain Lay the snow, 132 BY THE SEASIDE, They fell, — those lordly pines ! Those grand, majestic pines ! 'Mid shouts and cheers The jaded steers, Panting beneath the goad, Dragged down the weary, winding road Those captive kings so straight and tall, To be shorn of their streaming hair, And, naked and bare, To feel the stress and the strain Of the wind and the reeling main, Whose roar Would remind them for evermore Of their native forests they should not see again. And everywhere The slender, graceful spars Poise aloft in the air, And at the mast head, White, blue, and red, A flag unrolls the stripes and stars. Ah ! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless, In foreign harbours shall behold That flag unrolled, 'T will be as a friendly hand Stretched out from his native land, Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless ! All is finished ! and at length Has come the bridal day Of beauty and of strength. THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 133 To-day the vessel shall he launched ! With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, And o'er the bay, Slowly, in all his splendours dight, The great sun rises to behold the sight. The ocean old Centuries old, Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, Paces restless to and fro, Up and down the sands of gold. His beating heart is not at rest ; And far and wide, With ceaseless flow, His beard of snow Heaves with the heaving of his breast. He waits impatient for his bride. There she stands, With her foot upon the sands, Decked with flags and streamers gay, In honour of her marriage day, Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, Round her like a veil descending, Ready to be The bride of the gray, old sea. On the deck another bride Is standing by her lover's side. 134 BY THE SEASIDE. Shadows from the flags and shrouds, Like the shadows cast by clouds, Broken by many a sunny fleck, Fall around them on the deck. The prayer is said, The service read, The joyous bridegroom bows his head ; And in tears the good old Master Shakes the brown hand of his son, Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek In silence, for he cannot speak, And ever faster Down his own the tears begin to run. The worthy pastor — The shepherd of that wandering flock, That has the ocean for its wold, That has the vessel for its fold, Leaping ever from rock to rock — Spake, with accents mild and clear, Words of warning , words of cheer, But tedious to the bridegroom's ear. He knew the chart Of the sailor's heart, All its pleasures and its griefs, All its shallows and rocky reefs, All those secret currents, that flow With such resistless undertow. And lift and drift, with terrible force, The will from its moorings and its course. Therefore he spake, and thus said he : — THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 135 " Like unto sliips far off at sea, Outward or homeward bound are we. Before, behind, and all around, Floats and swings the horizon's bound, Seems at its distant rim to rise And climb the crystal wall of the skies, And then again to turn and sink, As if we could slide from its outer brink. Ah ! it is not the sea, It is not the sea that sinks and shelves, But ourselves That rock and rise With endless and uneasy motion, Now touching the very skies, Now sinking into the depths of ocean. Ah ! if our souls but poise and swing Like the compass in its brazen ring, Ever level and ever true To the toil and the task we have to do, We shall sail securely, and safely reach The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach The sights we see, and the sounds we hear, Will be those of joy and not of fear! " Then the Master, With a gesture of command, Waved his hand ; And at the word, Loud and sudden there was heard, All around them and below, The sound of hammers, blow on blow, 136 BY THE SEASIDE. Knocking away the shores and spurs. And see ! she stirs ! She starts, — she moves, — she seems to feel The thrill of life along her keel, And, spurning with her foot the ground, With one exulting, joyous hound, She leaps into the ocean's arms ! JS& And lo ! from the assembled crowd There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, That to the ocean seemed to say, — • " Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray, Take her to thy protecting arms, With all her youth and all her charms !" THE BUTLDING OF THE SHIP. 137 How beautiful she is ! How fair She lies within those arms, that press Her form with many a soft caress Of tenderness and watchful care ! Sail forth into the sea, O ship ! Through wind and wave right onward steer ! The moistened eye, the trembling lip, Are not the signs of doubt or fear. Sail forth into the sea of life, O gentle, loving, trusting wife, And safe from all adversity Upon the bosom of that sea Thy comings and thy goings be ! For gentleness and love and trust Prevail o'er angry wave and gust ; And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives ! Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State ! Sail on, O Union, strong and great ! Humanity with all its fears, With all the hopes of future years, Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! We know what Master laid thy keel, What Workman wrought thy ribs of steel, Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, What anvils rang, what hammers beat, In what a forge and what a heat Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! 138 BY THE SEASIDE. Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 'T is of the wave and not the rock ; 'T is but the flapping of the sail, And not a rent made by the gale ! In spite of rock and tempest's roar, In spite of false lights on the shore, Sail ou, nor fear to breast the sea! Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, Are all with thee, — are all with thee ! THE EVENING STAR. Just above yon sandy bar, As the day grows fainter and dimmer, Lonely and lovely, a single star Lights the air with a dusky glimmer. Into the ocean faint and far Falls the trail of its golden splendour, And the gleam of that single stal- ls ever refulgent, soft, and tender. Chrysaor rising out of the sea, Showed thus glorious and thus emulous, Leaving the arms of Callirrhoe, For ever tender, soft, and tremulous. THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 139 Thus, o'er the ocean faint and far Trailed the gleam of his falchion brightly ; Is it a God, or is it a star That, entranced, I gaze on nightly ! THE SECRET OF THE SEA. Ah ! What pleasant visions haunt me As I gaze upon the sea ! All the old romantic legends, All my dreams, come back to me. Sails of silk and ropes of sendal, Such as gleam in ancient lore ! And the singing of the sailors, And the answer from the shore ! Most of all, the Spanish ballad Haunts me oft, and tarries long, 140 BY THE SEASIDE. Of the noble Count Arnaldos, And the sailor's mystic song. Like the long waves on a sea-beach, Where the sand as silver shines, With a soft, monotonous cadence, Flow its unrhymed lyric lines ; Telling how the Count Arnaldos, With his hawk upon his hand, Saw a fair and stately galley, Steering onward to the land ; — : THE SECRET OF THE SEA. How he heard the ancient helmsman Chant a song* so wild and clear, That the sailing sea-bird slowly Poised upon the mast to hear. Till his soul was full of longing, And he cried, with impulse strong — " Helmsman ! for the love of heaven, Teach me, too, that wondrous song ! " Would'st thou, — so the helmsman answered, " Learn the secret of the sea ? Only those Avho brave its dangers Comprehend its mystery ! " In each sail that skims the horizon, In each landward-blowing breeze, I behold that stately galley, Hear those mournful melodies. Till my soul is full of longing For the secret of the sea, And the heart of the great ocean Sends a thrilling pulse through me. TWILIGHT. The twilight is sad and cloudy, The wind blows wild and free, And like the wings of sea-birds Flash the white caps of the sea. But in the fisherman's cottage There shines a ruddier light, And a little face at the window Peers out into the night. TWILIGHT. 143 Close, close it is pressed to the window, As if those childish eyes Were looking into the darkness, To see some form arise. And a woman's waving shadow Is passing to and fro, Now rising to the ceiling, Now bowing and bending low. What tale do the roaring ocean, And the night-wind, bleak and wild, As they beat at the crazy casement, Tell to that little child ? And why do the roaring ocean, And the night-wind, wild and bleak, As they beat at the heart of the mother, Drive the colour from her cheek ? SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT. Southward with fleet of ice Sailed the corsair Death ; Wild and fast blew the blast, And the east- wind was his breath. His lordly ships of ice Glistened in the sun ; On each side, like pennons wide, Flashing crystal streamlets run. His sails of white sea-mist Dripped with silver rain ; But where he passed there were cast Leaden shadows o'er the main. Eastward from Campobello Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed ; Three days or more seaward he bore, Then, alas! the land-wind failed. Alas ! the land-wind failed, And ice-cold grew the night ; And never more, on sea or shore, Should Sir Humphrey sec the light. SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT. 115 He sat upon the deck, The Book was in his hand ; " Do not fear ! Heaven is as near,*' He said, "by water as by land ! " In the first watch of the night, Without a signal's sound, Out of the sea, mysteriously, The fleet of Death rose all around. The moon and the evening star Were hanging in the shrouds ; Every mast, as it passed, Seemed to rake the passing clouds. They grappled with their prize, At midnight black and cold ! As of a rock was the shock ; . Heavily the ground-swell rolled. Southward through day and dark, They drift in close embrace, With mist and rain, to the Spanish Main ; Yet there seems no change of place. Southward, for ever southward, Thsy drift through dark and day ; And like a dream, in the Gulf-Stream Sinking, vanish all away. THE LIGHTHOUSE. The rocky ledge runs far into the sea, And on its outer point, some miles away, The lighthouse lifts its massive masonry, A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day. Even at this distance I can see the tides, Upheaving, break unheard along its base, A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides In the white lip and tremour of the face. THE LIGHTHOUSE. 147 And as the evening darkens, lo ! bow bright, Through the deep purple of the twilight air, Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light With strange, unearthly splendour in its glare ! Not one alone ; from each projecting cape And perilous reef along the ocean's verge, Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape, Holding its lantern o'er the restless surge. Like the great giant Christopher it stands Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave, Wading far out among the rocks and sands, The night-o'ertaken mariner to save. And the great ships sail outward and return, Bending and bowing o'er the billowy swells, And ever joyful, as they see it burn, They wave their silent welcomes and farewells. They come forth from the darkness, and their sails Gleam for a moment only in the blaze, And eager faces, as the light unveils, Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze. The mariner remembers when a child, On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink ; And when, returning from adventures wild, He saw it rise again o'er ocean's brink. 148 BY THE SEASIDE. Steadfast, serene, immoveable, the same Year after year, through all the silent night Burns on for evermore that quenchless flame, Shines on that inextinguishable light ! It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp, And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece. The startled waves leap over it ; the storm Smites it with all the scourges of the rain, And steadily against its solid form Press the great shoulders of the hurricane. The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din Of wings and winds and solitary cries, Blinded and maddened by the light within, Dashes himself against the glare, and dies. A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock, Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove, It does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock, But hails the mariner with words of love. " Sail on ! " it says, " sail on, ye stately ships ! And with your floating bridge the ocean span ; Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse, Be vours to bring- man nearer unto man ! " THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD. We sat within the farm-house old, Whose windows, looking o'er the bay, Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold, An easy entrance, night and day. Not far away we saw the port, — The strange old-fashioned, silent town, — The lighthouse,' — the dismantled fort, — The wooden houses, quaint and brown. We sat and talked until the night, Descending, filled the little room ; Our faces faded from the sight, Our voices only broke the gloom. We spake of many a vanished scene, Of what we once had thought and said, Of what had been, and might have been, And who was changed, and who was dead ; And all that fills the hearts of friends, When first they feel, with secret pain, Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, And never can be one again ; The first slight swerving of the heart, That words are powerless to express, And leave it still unsaid in part, Or say it in too great excess. 150 13Y THE FIRESIDE. The very tones in which we spake Had something strange, I could but mark : The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark. Oft died the words upon our lips, As suddenly, from out the fire Built of the wreck of stranded ships, The flames would leap and then expire. And, as their splendour flashed and failed, "VVe thought of wrecks upon the main, — Of ships dismasted, that were hailed And sent no answer back again. The windows, rattling in their frames, — The ocean, roaring up the beach, — The gusty blast, — the bickering flames, — All mingled vaguely in our speech ; Until they made themselves a part Of fancies floating through the brain, — The long-lost ventures of the heart, That send no answer back again. O flames that glowed ! O hearts that yearned ! They were indeed too much akin, The drift-wood fire without that burned, The thoughts that burned and glowed within. BY THE FIRESIDE. RESIGNATION. There is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there ! There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair ! 152 BY THE FIRESIDE. The air is full of farewells to the dying, And mournings for the dead ; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Will not be comforted. Let us be patient! These severe afflictions Not from the ground arise, But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise. We see but dimly through the mists and vapours Amid these earthly damps What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers May be Heaven's distant lamps. • There is no Death ! What seems so is transition ; This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, Whose portal we call Death. She is not dead, — the child of our affection, — But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And Christ himself doth rule. In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, By guardian angels led, Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, She lives whom we call dead. RESIGNATION. 153 Day after day we tliink what she is doing 1 In those bright realms of air ! Year after year, her tender steps pursuing-, Behold her grown more fair. Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken The bond which nature gives, Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken. May reach her where she lives. Not as a child shall Ave again behold her ; For when with raptures wild In our embraces we again enfold her, She will not be a child ; But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, Clothed with celestial grace ; And beautiful with all the soul's expansion Shall we behold her face. And though at times impetuous with emotion, And anguish long suppressed, The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean . That cannot be at rest, — We will be patient, and assuage the feeling We may not wholly stay ; By silence sanctifying, not concealing, The grief that must have way. THE BUILDERS. All are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time ; Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme. Nothing useless is, or low ; Each thing in its place is best ; And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest. For the structure that we raise, Time is with materials filled ; Our to-days and yesterdays Are the blocks with which we build. Truly shape and fashion these ; Leave no yawning gaps between ; Think not, because no man sees, Such things will remain unseen. In the elder days of Art, Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part ; For the Gods see everywhere. Let us do our work as well, Both the unseen and the seen : SAND OF THE DESERT. 155 Make the house where Gods may dwell, Beautiful, entire, and clean. Else our lives are incomplete, Standing in these walls of Time, Broken stairways, where the feet Stumble as they seek to climb. Build to-day, then, strong and sure, With a firm and ample base ; And ascending and secure Shall to-morrow find its place. Thus alone can we attain To those turrets, where the eye Sees the world as one vast plain, And one boundless reach of sky. SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN HOUR-GLASS. A handful of red sand, from the hot clime Of Arab deserts brought, Within this glass becomes the spy of Time, The minister of Thought. How many weary centuries has it been About those deserts blown! 150 BY THE FIRESIDE. How many strange vicissitudes has seen, How many histories known ! Perhaps the camels of the Ishmaelite Trampled and passed it o'er, When into Egypt from the patriarch's sight His favourite son they bore. Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare, Crushed it beneath their tread ; Or Pharaoh's flashing wheels into the air Scattered it as they sped ; Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth Held close in her caress, Whose pilgrimage of hope and love and faith Illumed the wilderness ; SAND OF THE DESERT, 137 Or anchorites beneath Engaddi's palms Pacing the Red Sea beach, And singing slow their old Armenian psalms In half- articulate speech ; Or caravans, that from Bassora's gate With westward steps depart ; Or Mecca's pilgrims, confident of Fate, And resolute in heart ! ■4 These have passed over it, or may have passed Now in this crystal tower Imprisoned by some curious hand at last, It counts the passing hour. And as I gaze, these narrow walls expand; — Before my dreamy eye Stretches the desert with its shifting sand, Its unimpeded sky. And borne aloft by the sustaining blast, This little golden thread JDilates into a column high and vast, A form of fear and dread. And onward, and across the setting sun, Across the boundless plain, The column and its broader shadow run, Till thought pursues in vain. 158 BY THE FIRESIDE. The vision vanishes! These walls again Shut out the lurid sun, Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain ; The half-hour's sand is run ! BIRDS OF PASSAGE. Black shadows fall From the lindens tall, That lift aloft their massive wall Against the southern sky; And from the realms Of the shadowy elms A tide-like darkness overwhelms The fields that round us lie, But the night is fair, And everywhere A w T arm, soft, vapour fills the air, And distant sounds seem near ; And above, in the light Of the star-lit night, Swift birds of passage wing their flight Through the dewy atmosphere. BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 159 I hear the beat Of their pinions fleet, As from the land of snow and sleet They seek a southern lea. I hear the cry Of their voices high Falling dreamily through the sky, But their forms I cannot see. O, say not so ! Those sounds that flow In murmurs of delight and woe Come not from wings of birds. They are the throngs Of the poet's songs, Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs, The sound of winged words. This is the cry Of souls, that high On toiling, beating pinions, fly, Seeking a warmer clime. From their distant flight Through realms of light It falls into our world of night, AVith the murmuring sound of rhyme. 160 BY THE FIRESIDE. : ^m THE OPEN WINDOW. # The old house by the lindens Stood silent in the shade, And on the gravelled pathway The light and shadow played. I saw the nursery windows Wide open to the air THE OPEN WINDOW. 101 But the faces of the children, They were no longer there. The large Newfoundland house-dog Was standing by the door; He looked for his little playmates, Who would return no more. They walked not under the lindens, They played not in the hall ; But shadow, and silence, and sadness Were hanging over all. The birds sang in the branches, With sweet, familiar tone ; But the voices of the children Will be heard in dreams alone ! And the boy that walked beside me, He could not understand Why closer in mine, ah ! closer, I pressed his warm, soft hand ! KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN. Witlaf, a king of the Saxons, Ere yet his last he breathed, To the merry monks of Croyland His drinking-horn bequeathed, — That, whenever they sat at their revels, And drank from the golden bowl, They might remember the donor, And breathe a prayer for his soul. So sat they once at Christmas, And bade the goblet pass KING WITLAFS DRINKING-HORN, In their beards the red wine glistened Like dew-drops in the grass. They drank to the soul of Witlaf, They drank to Christ the Lord, And to each of the Twelve Apostles, Who had preached His holy word. They drank to the Saints and Martyrs Of the dismal days of yore, And as soon as the horn was empty They remembered one Saint more. And the reader droned from the pulpit, Like the murmur of many bees, The legend of good Saint Guthlac, And Saint Basil's homilies: Till the great bells of the convent, From their prison in the tower, Guthlac and Bartholomeeus, Proclaimed the midnight hour. And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney And the Abbot bowed his head, And the flamelets napped and nickered, But the Abbot was stark and dead. Yet still in his pallid fingers He clutched the golden bowl, 1(54 BY THE FIRESIDE. In which, like a pearl dissolving, Had sunk and dissolved his soul. But not for this their revels The jovial monks forbore, For they cried, " Fill high the goblet ! We must drink to one Saint more ! GASPAR BECERRA. By his evening fire the artist Pondered o'er his secret shame ; Baffled, weary, and disheartened, Still he mused and dreamed of fame. T was an image of the Virgin That had tasked his utmost skill ; But alas ! his fair ideal Vanished and escaped him still. From a distant eastern island Had the precious wood been brought Day and night the anxious master At his toil untiring wrought ; Till, discouraged and desponding, Sat he now in shadows deep, PEGASUS IN POUND. 165 And the day's humiliation Found oblivion in sleep. Then a voice cried, " Rise, O master! From the burning brand of oak Shape the thought that stirs within thee !" And the startled artist woke, — Woke, and from the smoking embers Seized and quenched the glowing wood ; And therefrom he carved an image, And' he saw that it was good. thou sculptor, painter, poet ! Take this lesson to thy heart : That is best which lieth nearest ; Shape from that thy work of art. PEGASUS m POUND. Once into a quiet village, Without haste and without heed, In the golden prime of morning, Strayed the poet's winged steed. It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves. w 166 BY THE FIRESIDE. Loud the clamorous bell was ringing From its belfry gaunt and grim ; 'Twas the daily call to labour, Not a triumph meant for him. Not the less he saw the landscape, . In its gleaming vapour veiled ; Not the less he breathed the odours That the dying leaves exhaled. Thus, upon the village common, By the schoolboys he was found ; And the wise men, in their wisdom, Put him straightway into pound. Then the sombre village crier, Ringing loud his brazen bell, Wandered down the street proclaiming There was an estray to sell. And the curious country people, Rich and poor, and young and old, Came in haste to see this wondrous Winged steed, with mane of gold. Thus the day passed, and the evening Fell, with vapours cold and dim ; But it brought no food nor shelter, Brought no straw nor stall for him. PEGASUS IN POUND. 167 Patiently, and still expectant, Looked lie through the wooden bars, Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape, Saw the tranquil, patient stars ; Till at length the bell at midnight Sounded from its dark abode, And, from out a neighbouring farm-yard, Loud the cock Alectryon crowed. Then, with nostrils wide distended, Breaking from his iron chain, And unfolding far his pinions, To those stars he soared again. On the morrow when the village Woke to all its toil and care, Lo ! the strange steed had departed, And they knew not when nor where. But they found, upon the greensward Where his straggling hoofs had trod, Pure and bright, a fountain flowing From the hoof-marks in the sod. From that hour the fount unfailing Gladdens the whole region round, Strengthening all who drink its waters, While it soothes them with its sound. TEGNERS DllAPA. I HEARD a voice that cried, " Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead ! " And through the misty air Passed like the mournful cry Of sunward sailing- cranes. I saw the pallid corpse Of the dead sun Borne through the Northern sky Blasts from Niffelheim Lifted the sheeted mists Around him as he passed. And the voice for ever cried, " Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead ! " And died away Through the dreary night, In accents of despair. Balder the Beautiful, God of the summer sun, Fairest of all the gods ! Light from his forehead beamed, TEGNERS DRAPA. 169 Ilunes were upon his tongue, As on the warrior's sword. All things in earth and air Bound were by magic spell Never to do him harm ; Even the plants and stones ; All save the mistletoe, The sacred mistletoe ! Header, the blind old god, Whose feet are shod with silence, Pierced through that gentle breast With his sharp spear, by fraud Made of the mistletoe, The accursed mistletoe ! They laid him in his ship, With horse and harness, As on a funeral pyre. Odin placed A ring upon his finger, And whispered in his ear. They launched the burning ship ! It floated far away Over the misty sea, Till like the sun it seemed, Sinking beneath the waves. Balder returned no more ! 170 BY THE FIRESIDE. So perish the old gods ! But out of the sea of Time Rises a new land of song, Fairer than the old. Over its meadows green Walk the young bards and sin; Build it again, O ye bards, Fairer than before ! Ye fathers of the new race, Feed upon morning dew, Sing the new Song of Love ! The law of force is dead ! The law of love prevails ! Thor, the thunderer, Shall rule the earth no more, No more, with threats, Challenge the meek Christ. Sing no more, O ye bards of the North, Of Vikings and of Jarls ! Of the days of Eld Preserve the freedom only, Not the deeds of blood ! SONNET ON MRS. KEMBLE'S READINGS FROM SHAKSTEARK O precious evenings! all too swiftly sped! Leaving us heirs to amplest heritages Of all the best thoughts of the greatest sages, And giving tongues unto the silent dead ! How our hearts glowed and trembled as she read, Interpreting by tones the wondrous pages Of the great poet who foreruns the ages, Anticipating all that shall be said ! O happy Reader ! having for thy text The magic book, whose Sibylline leaves have caught The rarest essence of all human thought ! O happy Poet ! by no critic vext ! How must thy listening spirit now rejoice To be interpreted by such a voice ! THE SINGERS. God sent his Singers upon earth With songs of sadness and of mirth, That they might touch the hearts of men, And bring them back to heaven again. The first a youth, with soul of fire, Held in his hand a golden lyre ; 172 BY THE FIRESIDE. ■r*2 k ^^ Through groves he wandered, and by streams, Playing the music of our dreams. The second, with a bearded face, Stood singing- in the market place, And stirred with accents deep and loud The hearts of all the listening crowd. THE SINGERS. I "", I 5 I ! I'] - - , ,/. j: r-rtf A gray, old man, the third and last, Sang in cathedrals dim and vast, While the majestic organ rolled Contrition from its mouths of gold. And those who heard the Singers three Disputed which the best might he ; For still their music seemed to start Discordant echoes in each heart. 174 BY THE FIRESIDE. But the great Master said, " I see No best in kind, but in degree ; I gave a various gift to each, To charm, to strengthen, and to teach. " These are the three great chords of might, And he whose ear is tuned aright Will hear no discord in the three, But the most perfect harmony." S US PIMA. Take them, Death! and bear away Whatever thou canst call thine own ! Thine image, stamped upon this clay, Doth give thee that, but that alone ! Take them, O Grave ! and let them lie Folded upon thy narrow shelves, As garments by the soul laid by, And precious only to ourselves ! Take them, O great Eternity ! Our little life is but a gust, That bends the branches of thy tree, And trails its blossoms in the dust ! HYMX. FOR MY BROTHER S ORDINATIOX. Christ to the young man said : " Yet one thing more If thou wouldst perfect be, Sell all thou hast and give it to the poor, And come and follow me !" Within this temple Christ again, unseen, Those sacred words hath said, 176 BY THE FIRESIDE. And His invisible hands to-day have been Laid on a young man's head. And evermore beside him on his way The unseen Christ shall move, That he may lean upon his arm and say, " Dost thou, dear Lord, approve ?" Beside him at the marriage feast shall be, To make the scene more fair ; Beside him in the dark Gethsemane Of pain and midnight prayer. O holy trust ! O endless sense of rest ! Like the beloved John To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast, And thus to journey on ! POEMS ON SLAVERY The following poems, with one exception, were written at sea, in the latter part of October, 1842. I had not then heard of Dr. Channing's death. Since that event, the poem addressed to him is no longer appropriate. I have decided, however, to let it remain as it was written, a feeble testimony of my admiration for a great and good man. TO WILLIAM E. CIIANNING. The pages of thy book I read, And as I closed each one, My heart, responding, ever said, " Servant of God ! well done ! " Well done ! Thy words are great and bold At times they seem to me, Like Luther's in the days of old, Half-battles for the free. Go on, until this land revokes The old and chartered Lie, The feudal curse, whose. whips and yokes Insult humanity. A voice is ever at thy side Speaking in tones of might, Like the prophetic voice, that cried To John in Patmos, " Write !" ISO POEMS ON SLAVERY Write ! and tell out this bloody tale Record this dire eclipse, This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail This dread Apocalypse ! THE SLAVE'S DREAM. Beside the un gathered rice he lay, His sickle in his hand ; His breast was bare, his matted hair Was buried in the sand. Again in the mist and shadow of sleep He saw his native land. Wide through the landscape of his dreams The lordly Niger flowed ; Beneath the palm trees on the plain Once more a king he strode ; And heard the tinkling caravans Descend the moantain road. He saw once more his dark- eyed queen Among her children stand ; They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheek; They held him by the hand ! — A tear burst from the sleeper's lids And fell into the sand. THE SLAVE'S DREAM. 181 And then at furious speed he rode Along the Niger's bank ; His bridle-reins were golden chains, And, with a martial clank, At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel Smiting his stallion's flank. Before him, like a blood-red flag, The bright flamingoes flew ; From morn till night he followed their flight, O'er plains where the tamarind grew, 182 POEMS ON SLAVERY. Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, And the ocean rose to view. At night he heard the lion roar, And the hyaena scream, And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds Beside some hidden stream ; And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, Through the triumph of his dream. The forests, with their myriad tongues, Shouted of liberty ; And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, With a voice so wild and free, That he started in his sleep and smiled At their tempestuous glee. He did not feel the driver's whip, Nor the burning heat of day ; For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, And his lifeless body lay A worn-out fetter, that the soul Had broken and thrown away ! THE GOOD PART, THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY. She dwells by Great Kenhawa's side, In valleys green and cool ; And all her hope and all her pride Are in the village school. Her soul, like the transparent air That robes the hills above, Though not of earth, encircles there All things with arms of love. And thus she walks among her girls With praise and mild rebukes ; Subduing e'en rude village churls By her angelic looks. She reads to them at eventide Of One who came to save ; To cast the captive's chains aside, And liberate the slave. And oft the blessed time foretells When all men shall be free ; And musical, as silver bells, Their falling chains shall be. 184 POEMS ON SLAVERY. And following her beloved Lord, In decent poverty, She makes her life one sweet record And deed of charity. For she was rich, and gave up all To break the iron bands Of those who waited in her hall, And laboured in her lands. Long since beyond the Southern Sea Their outbound sails have sped, While she, in meek humility, Now earns her daily bread. It is their prayers, which never cease, That clothe her with such grace; Their blessing is the light of peace That shines upon her face. THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp The hunted Negro lay ; He saw the fire of the midnight camp, And heard at times a horse's tramp And a bloodhound's distant bav. THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. 185 Where will-o'-the-wisps and glow-worms shine, In bulrush and in brake ; Where waving mosses shroud the pine, And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine Is spotted like the snake ; Where hardly a human foot could pass, Or a human heart would dare, On the quaking turf of the green morass He crouched in the rank and tangled grass, Like a wild beast in his lair. A poor old slave, infirm and lame; Great scars deformed his face ; On his forehead he bore the brand of shame, And the rags, that hid his mangled frame, Were the livery of disgrace. 186 POEMS ON SLAVERY. All things above were bright and fair. All things were glad and free ; Lithe squirrels darted here and there, And wild birds filled the echoing air With songs of Liberty! On him alone was the doom of pain, From the morning of his birth ; On him alone the curse of Cain Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain, And struck him to the earth ! THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT. Loud he sang the psalm of David ! He, a Negro and enslaved, Sang of Israel's victory, Sang of Zion, bright and free. In that hour, when night is calmest, Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist, In a voice so sweet and clear That I could not choose but hear. Songs of triumph, and ascriptions, Such as reached the swart Egyptians, When upon the Red Sea coast Perished Pharaoh and his host. THE WITNESSES. 187 And the voice of his devotion Filled my sonl with strange emotion ; For its tones by turns were glad, Sweetly solemn, wildly sad. Paul and Silas, in their prison, Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen, And an earthquake's arm of might Broke their dungeon gates at night. But, alas ! what holy angel Brings the Slave this glad evangel? And what earthquake's arm of might Breaks his dungeon gates at night ? THE WITNESSES. In Ocean's wide domains, Half buried in the sands, Lie skeletons in chains, With shackled feet and hands; Beyond the fall of dews, Deeper than plummet lies, Float ships with all their crews, No more to sink nor rise. 188 POEMS ON SLAVERY. There the black Slave-ship swims, Freighted with human forms, Whose fettered, fleshless limbs Are not the sport of storms. These are the bones of Slaves ; They gleam from the abyss : They cry, from yawning waves, " We are the Witnesses ! " Within Earth's wide domains Are markets for men's lives ; Their necks are galled with chains, Their wrists are cramped with gyves. Dead bodies, that the kite In deserts makes its prey ; Murders, that with affright Scare schoolboys from their play ! All evil thoughts and deeds ; Anger, and lust, and pride ; The foulest, rankest weeds, That choke Life's groaning tide ! These are the woes of Slaves ; They glare from the abyss : They cry, from unknown graves, " We are the Witnesses ! '* THE QUADROON GIRL. The Slaver in the broad lagoon Lay moored with idle sail ; He waited for the rising moon, And for the evening gale. Under the shore his boat was tied, And all her listless crew Watched the gray alligator slide Into the still bavou. 190 POEMS ON SLAVERY. Odours of orange-flowers, and spice, Reached them from time to time, Like airs that breathe from Paradise Upon a world of crime. The Planter, under his roof of thatch, Smoked thoughtfully and slow ; The Slaver's thumb was on the latch, He seemed in haste to go. He said, " My ship at anchor rides In yonder broad lagoon ; I only wait the evening tides, And the rising of the moon." Before them, with her face upraised, In timid attitude, Like one half curious, half amazed, A Quadroon maiden stood. Her eyes were large, and full of light, Her arms and neck were bare ; No garment she wore save a kirtle bright, And her own long, raven hair. And on her lips there played a smile As holy, meek, and faint, As lights in some cathedral aisle The features of a saint, THE QUADROON GIRL. 191 " The soil is barren, — the farm is old;" The thoughtful Planter said ; Then looked upon the Slaver's gold, And then upon the maid. His heart within him was at strife With such accursed gains ; For he knew whose passions gave her life, Whose blood ran in her veins. But the voice of nature was too weak ; He took the glittering gold ! Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek, Her hands as icy cold. The Slaver led her from the door, He led her by the hand, To be his slave and paramour In a strange and distant land ! THE WARNING. Beware ! The Israelite of old, who tore The lion in his path, — when, poor and blind, He saw the blessed light of heaven no more, Shorn of his noble strength and forced to grind In prison, and at last led forth to be A pander to Philistine revelry, — ■ Upon the pillars of the temple laid His desperate hands, and in its overthrow Destroyed himself, and with him those who made A cruel mockery of his sightless woe ; The poor, blind Slave, the scoff and jest of all, Expired, and thousands perished in the fall ! There is a poor, blind Samson in this land, Shorn of his strength, and bound in bonds of steej, Who may, in some grim revel, raise his hand, And shake the pillars of this Commonweal, Till the vast Temple of our liberties A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies. BALLADS, SONGS, AND SONNETS. j;-^£. i : ^&fL BALLADS. THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR. The following Ballad was suggested to me while riding on the sea-shore at Newport. A year or two previous a skeleton had heen dug up at Fall River, clad in broken and corroded armour ; and the idea occurred to me of connecting it with the Round Tower at Newport, generally known hitherto as the old windmill, though now claimed by the Danes as a work of their early ancestors. Professor Rafn, in the Memoires de la Societe Boy ale des Antiquaires du Nbrd, for 1838-1839, says : — "There is no mistaking, in this instance, the style in which the more ancient stone edifices of the North were constructed, the style which belongs to the Roman or Ante-Gothic Architecture, and which, especially after the time of Charlemagne, diffused itself from Italy over the whole of the West and North of Europe, where it continued to predominate until the close of the twelfth century ; that style, which some authors have, from one of its 196 BALLADS. most striking characteristics, called the round arch style, the same which in England is denominated Saxon and sometimes Norman architecture. " On the ancient structure in Newport there are no ornaments remaining, which might possibly have served to guide us in assigning the probable date of its erection. That no vestige whatever is found of the pointed arch, nor any approximation to it, is indicative of an earlier rather than of a later period. From such characteristics as remain, however, we can scarcely form any other inference than one, in which I am persuaded that all, who are familiar with Old-Northern architecture, will concur, that this building WAS ERECTED AT A TERIOD DECIDEDLY NOT LATER THAN THE TWELFTH CEN- TURY. This remark applies, of course, to the original building only, and not to the alterations that it subsequently received ; for there are several such alterations in the upper part of the building which cannot be mistaken, and which were most likely occasioned by its being adapted "in modern times to various uses, for example as the substructure of a windmill, and latterly as a hay-magazine. To the same times may be referred the windows, the fire- place, and the apertures made above the columns. That this building could not have been erected for a windmill, is what an architect will easily discern." I will not enter into a discussion of the point. It is sufficiently well established for the purpose of a ballad ; though doubtless many an honest citizen of Newport, who has passed his days within sight of the Round Tower, will be ready to exclaim with Sancho : " God bless me ! did I not warn you to have a care of what you were doing, for that it was nothing but a windmill ; and nobody could mistake it but one who had the like in his head." " Speak ! speak ! thou fearful guest ! Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armour drest, Comest to daunt me ! Wrapt not in Eastern balms, But with thy fleshless palms Stretched, as if asking- alms, Why dost thou haunt me ? " AMr-'-./ ~m- " I wooed the blue-eyed maid, Yielding, yet half afraid, And in the forest's shade Our vows were plighted. Under its loosened vest Fluttered her little breast, Like birds within their nest By the hawk frighted. " Bright in her father's hall Shields gleamed upon the wall. Loud sang the minstrels all, Chaunting his glory ; THE SKELETON IN AKMOUR. 201 When of old Hildebrand I asked his daughter's hand, Mute did the minstrels stand To hear my story. " While the brown ale he quaffed, Loud then the champion laughed, And as the wind-gusts waft The sea-foam brightly, So the loud laugh of scorn, Out of those lips unshorn, From the deep drinking-horn Blew the foam lightly. " She was a Prince's child, I but a Viking wild, And though she blushed and smiled, I was discarded ! Should not the dove so white Follow the sea-mew's flight, Why did they leave that night Her nest unguarded ? " Scarce had I put to sea, Bearing the maid with me, — Fairest of all was she Among the Norsemen !-— When on the white sea- strand, Waving his armed hand, Saw we old Hildebrand, With twenty horsemen. TV*-. " I wooed the blue-eyed maid, Yielding, yet half afraid, And in the forest's shade Our vows were plighted. Under its loosened vest Fluttered her little breast, Like birds within their nest By the hawk frighted. " Bright in her father's hall Shields gleamed upon the wall. Loud sang the minstrels all, Chaunting his glory; THE SKELETON IN AHMOUR. 201 When of old Hildebrand I asked his daughter's hand, Mute did the minstrels stand To hear my story. " While the brown ale he quaffed, Loud then the champion laughed, And as the wind-gusts waft The sea-foam brightly, So the loud laugh of scorn, Out of those lips unshorn, From the deep drinking-horn Blew the foam lightly. " She was a Prince's child, I but a Viking wild, And though she blushed and smiled, I was discarded ! Should not the dove so white Follow the sea-mew's flight, Why did they leave that night Her nest unguarded ? " Scarce had I put to sea, Bearing" the maid with me, — Fairest of all was she Among the Norsemen !— When on the white sea- strand, Waving his armed hand, Saw we old Hildebrand, With twenty horsemen. 202 BALLADS. " Then launched they to the blast, Bent like a reed each mast, Yet we were gaining fast, When the wind failed us ; And with a sudden flaw Came round the gusty Skaw, So that our foe we saw Laugh as he hailed us. "And as to catch the gale Round veered the flapping sail, Death ! was the helmsman's hail, Death without quarter ! Mid-ships with iron keel Struck we her ribs of steel ; Down her black hulk did reel Through the black water ! " As with his wings aslant, Sails the fierce cormorant, Seeking some rocky haunt, With his prey laden, So toward the open main, Beating to sea again, Through the wild hurricane, Bore I the maiden. " Three weeks we westward bore, And when the storm was o'er, Cloud-like we saw the shore Stretching to leeward ; THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR. 203 There for my lady's bower Built I the lofty tower, Which, to this very hour, Stands looking seaward. " There lived we many years ; Time dried the maiden's tears ; She had forgot her fears, She was a mother ; Death closed her mild blue eyes, Under that tower she lies ; Ne'er shall the sun arise On such another. " Still grew my bosom then, Still as a stagnant fen ! Hateful to me were men, The sun-light hateful ! In the vast forest here, Clad in my warlike gear, Fell I upon my spear, O, death was grateful ! " Thus, seamed with many scars, Bursting these prison bars, Up to its native stars My soul ascended ! There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior's soul, Skoal! to the Northland ! shoal!" * — Thus the tale ended. • In Scandanavia this is the customary salutation when drinking a health. I have slightly changed the orthography of the word, in order to preserve the correct pronunciation. THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. It was the schooner Hesperus, That sailed the wintry sea ; And the skipper had taken his little daughter To bear him company. Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, That ope in the month of May. THE WRECK OF THE HESTERUS. 20 The skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth, And he watched how the veering- flaw did blow The smoke now West, now South. Then up and spake an old Sailor, Had sailed the Spanish Main, " I pray thee, put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane. " Last night, the moon had a golden ring, And to-night no moon we see !" The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed lie. Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the Northeast ; The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast. Down came the storm, and smote amain, The vessel in its strength ; She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, Then leaped her cable's length. " Come hither! come hither! my little daug-hter, And do not tremble so ; For I can weather the roughest gale, That ever wind did blow." 13 H 206 BALLADS. He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat Against the stinging blast ; He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast. " O father! I hear the church-bells ring, O say, what may it be ? " " 'lis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast ! " — And he steered for the open sea. " O father ! I hear the sound of guns, O say, what may it be ? " " Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea ! " " O father! I see a gleaming light, O say, what may it be ? " But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he. Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow On his fixed and glassy eyes. Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That saved she might be ; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, On the Lake of Galilee. THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 207 And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. And ever the fitful gusts between A sound came from the land ; It was the sound of the trampling surf, On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a dreary wreck, And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her deck. She struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull. Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts, went by the board ; Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair, Lashed close to a drifting mast. 208 BALLADS. The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes ; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea- weed, On the billows fall and rise. Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow ! Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman's Woe ! -^r* SONGS. SEAWEED. When descends on the Atlantic The gigantic Storm-wind of the equinox, Landward in his wrath he scourges The toiling surges, Laden with seaweed from the rocks : 210 SONGS. From Bermuda's reefs; from edges Of sunken ledges, In some far-off, bright Azore ; From Bahama, and the dashing, Silver-flashing Surges of San Salvador ; From the tumbling surf, that buries The Orkney an skerries, Answering the hoarse Hebrides ; And from wrecks of ships, and drifting Spars, uplifting On the desolate, rainy seas ; — Ever drifting, drifting, drifting On the shifting Currents of the restless main ; Till in sheltered coves, and reaches Of sandy beaches, All have found repose again. So when storms of wild emotion Strike the ocean Of the poet's soul, ere long From each cave and rocky fastness, In its vastness, Floats some fragment of a song : From the far-off isles enchanted, Heaven has planted With the golden fruit of Truth ; THE DAY IS DONE. 211 From the flashing surf, whose vision Gleams Elysian In the tropic clime of Youth ; From the strong Will, and the Endeavour That forever Wrestles with the tides of Fate ; From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, Tempest-shattered, Floating waste and desolate; — Ever drifting, drifting, drifting On the shifting Currents of the restless heart ; Till at length in hooks recorded, They, like hoarded Household words, no more depart. THE DAY IS DONE. The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist : 212 SONGS. A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time. For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavour ; And to-night I long for rest. Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start ; Who, through long days of labour, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies. AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. 81; Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer. Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away. AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. The day is ending, The night is descending ; The marsh is frozen, The river dead. Through clouds like ashes, The red sun flashes On village windows That glimmer red. c c 214 SONGS. The snow recommences ; The buried fences Mark no longer The road o'er the plain ; While through the meadows, Like fearful shadows, Slowly passes A funeral train. The bell is pealing, And every feeling Within me responds To the dismal knell ; Shadows are trailing, My heart is bewailing, And tolling within Like a funeral bell. TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK. Welcome, my old friend, Welcome to a foreign fireside, While the sullen gales of autumn Shake the windows. TO AN OLD DANISH SONG BOOK. 215 The ungrateful world Has. it seems, dealt harshly with thee, Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, First I met thee. There are marks of age, There are thumb-marks on thy margin, Made by hands that clasped thee rudely, At the ale-house. Soiled and dull thou art ; Yellow are thy time-worn pages, As the russet, rain-molested Leaves of autumn. Thou art stained with wine Scattered from hilarious goblets, As these leaves with the libations Of Olympus. Yet dost thou recall Days departed, half-forgotten, When in dreamy youth I wandered By the Baltic — When I paused to hear The old ballad of King Christian Shouted from suburban taverns In the twilight. 216 SONGS. Thou recallest bards, Who, in solitary chambers, And with hearts by passion wasted, Wrote thy pages. Thou recallest homes Where thy songs of love and friendship Made the gloomy Northern winter Bright as summer. Once some ancient Scald, In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, Chanted staves of these old ballads To the Vikings. Once in Elsinore, At the court of old King Hamlet, Yorick and his boon companions San Friends my soul with joy remembers ! How like quivering flames they start, When I fan the living embers On the hearth-stone of my heart ! 'Tis for this, thou Silent River ! That my spirit leans to thee ; Thou hast been a generous giver, Take this idle song: from me. BLIND BARTIMEUS. Blind Bartimeus at the gates Of Jericho in darkness waits ; He hears the crowd ; — he hears a breath Say, " It is Christ of Nazareth ! " And calls, in tones of agony, 'Irjaov, iXlrjaov jjls ! The thronging multitudes increase; Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace ! But still, above the noisy crowd, The beggar's cry is shrill and loud ; Until they say, "He calleth thee!" Oajccet, tyeipai tyuvei at ! Then saith the Christ, as silent stands The crowd, " What wilt thou at my hands ?" 266 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. And he replies, " O give me light ! Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight! And Jesus answers, "Xiraye ' H Triarie gov alvioici ge ! Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see, In darkness and in misery, Recall those mighty Voices Three, 'Irjaov, eXet](t6v jjle ! Qapaet, eyeipai, inraye ! H 7TI