i CLASSIC POEMS. FROM THE WRITINGS OF GOLDSMITH, BURNS, ELIOT, INGELOW, SCHILLEfc, TENNYSON, CAMPBELL, BYRON, COLERIDGEL MACAULAY, AYTOUN, POE AND GOETHE. REPRitfTED FROM THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY, NEW YORK : JOHN B. ALDEN, PUBLISHER. 1867. ^" ,6» o -1 y Vicroa s. c TROWS W»INTIHfi AND BOOKBINDING ^OWPANYj, • , EW YORK. CONTENTS. BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH. The Deserted Village, - The Traveller, ----- BY ROBERT BURNS. The Cotter's Saturday Night, Tarn O'Shanter, - To a Mouse, ------ Address to the Toothache, - Green Grow the Rashes, O ! Auld Lang Syne, - Up in the Morning Early, - John Anderson, My Jo. , Highland Mary, . - Oh, Whistle, and I'll Come to you, my Lad, - Brace's Address to his Army at Bannockburn - Contented wi' Little, Coming through the Rye, - - A Man's a Man for a' That, - BY GEORGE ELIOT. How Lisa Loved the King, - BY JEAN INGELOW. Songs of Seven, ----- Divided, ------ High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire, BY SCHILLER. The Song of the Bell, - Hero and Leander, - 1 - 14 29 36 44 46 47 48 49 50 50 52 52 53 54 55 57 89 94 101 - 115 CONTENTS. BY ALFRED TENNYSON. PAGE. Enoch Arden, - 125 BY THOMAS^ CAMPBELL. Gertrude of Wyoming, - - 151 BY LORD BYRON. Mazeppa, - 181 BY S. T. COLERIDGE. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, - 205 BY T. B. MACAULAY. Virginia, - 229 Ivry, - 244 The Armada, - 248 The Battle of Naseby, - - 252 BY E. W. AYTOUN. The Heart of the Bruce, - 257 The Burial March of Dundee, - - 266 Edinburgh after Flodden, - 271 The Widow of Glencoe, - - 282 BY EDGAR A. POE. The Raven, ------ 287 Lenore, - - - - - - - 294 The Bells, ------ 296 Annabel Lee, ----- - 300 For Annie, ------ 302 The City in the Sea, - 306 Dream Land, - 308 The Conqueror Worm, - - - - - 310 BY JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE. Hermann and Dorothea. 1. Kaliiope — Fate and Sympathy, - - 313 2. Trepsichore — Hermann, - 323 3. Thalia— The Burghers, - - - 335 4. Euterpe — Mother and Son, - 340 5. Polyhymnia — The Cosmopolite, - 351 6. Klio— The Age, - - - - - 362 7. Erato — Dorothea. - 377 8. Melpomene — Hermann and Dorothea, - 386 9. Urania — Conclusion, - 391 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheer'd the laboring swain, Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer's lingering blooms display'd — Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, where every sport could please — How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endeared each scene; How often have I paused on every charm — The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topp'd the neighboring hill, The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made; How often nave I bless'd the coming day When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labor free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree — While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending as the old surveyed, And many a gambol f rolick'd o'er the ground, And sleights of art and feats of strength went round : And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired— 2 GOLDSMITH. The dancing pair that simply sought renown By holding out to tire each other down, The swain mistrustless of his smutted face While secret laughter titter'd round the place, The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love, The matron's glance that would those looks reprove. These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these, With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please; These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shedj These were thy charms— but all these charms are fled. Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green : One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But choked with sedges works its weedy way; Along thy glades, a solitary guest, The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; Amidst thy desert-walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvaried cries ; Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ; And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, Far, far away thy children leave the land. •"" 111 fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade— A breath can make them, as a breath has made ; But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroy'd can never be supplied. A time there was, ere England's griefs began, When every rood of ground maintain'd its man ; THE DESERTED VILLAGE. For him light labor spread her wholesome store. Just gave what life required, but gave no more; His best companions, innocence and health ; And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. But times are alter'd; trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain : Along the lawn where scatter'd hamlets rose, Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose; And every want to luxury allied ; And every pang that folly pays to pride. Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, Those healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful scene, Liv'd in each look, and brighten'd all the green, These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, And rural mirth and manners are no more. Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour, Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. Here, as I take my solitary rounds Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds, And, many a year elaps'd return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew-* Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs — and God has given my share — ■ I still had hopes my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting, by repose. I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, Amidst the swains to show my book-learn 'd skill — Around my fire an evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; 4 GOLDSMITH. And, as an hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations pass'd, Here to return— and die at home at last. O bless'd retirement, friend to life's decline, Retreats from care, that never must be miue ! How happy he who crowns, in shades like these, A youth of labor with an age of ease ; Who quits a world where strong temptations try — And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly. For him no wretches, born to work and weep, Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; No surly porter stands, in guilty state, To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; But on he moves, to meet his latter end, Angels around befriending virtue's friend — Bends to the grave with unperceiv'd decay, "While resignation gently slopes the way — And, all his prospects brightening to the last, His heaven commences ere the world be pass'd. Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came soften'd from below ; The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, The sober herd that low'd to meet their young, The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school, The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind — These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sounds of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 5 ■No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread. For all the blooming flush of life is fled — All but yon widow'd, solitary thing, That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; She, wretched matron — forced in age, for bread, To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn — She only left of all the harmless train, The sad historian of the pensive plain ! Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden flower grows wild, There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year. Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change, his place; Unpractis'd he to fawn, or seek for power By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour, Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize — More skill'd to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train ; He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain; The long-remembered beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claim allowed; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away — Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won. Pleased with his guest, the good man learn'd to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; 6 GOLDSMITH. Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings leau'd to virtue's side — But in his duty prompt, at every call, He watch'd and wept, he prayed and felt for all; And, as a bird each fond endearment tries To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed, where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd, The reverend champion stood : at his control Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise. At church with meek and unaffected grace His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, And fools who came to scoff remain'd to pray. The service pass'd, around the pious man, With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran ; Even children follow 'd, with endearing wile, And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile; His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd, Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distress' d. To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven : As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossom'd furze unprofltably gay— THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 7 There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, The village master taught his little school. A man severe he was, and stern to view; I knew him well, and every truant knew: Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace The day's disasters in his morning face; Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; Full well the busy whisper, circling round, Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frown'd — Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault. The village all declared how much he knew ; 'Twas certain he could write, and cypher too, Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage — And e'en the story ran that he could gauge. In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill, For e'en though vanquish'd he could argue still ; While words of learned length and thundering sound Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around — And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew That one small head could carry all he knew. But pass'd is all his fame : the very spot, Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired, Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlor splendor of that festive place ; The whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnished clock that click'd behiud the door— 8 GOLDSMITH. The chest contrived a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day—* The pictures placed for ornament and use, The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose— The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay- While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, Kang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. Vain transitory splendors! could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? Obscure, it sinks; nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart: Thither no more the peasant shall repair To sweet oblivion of his daily care; No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, Belax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; Nor the coy maid, half -willing to be press'd, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest . Yes, let the rich deride, the proud disdain, These simple blessings of the lowly train — To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloss of art. Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway- Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined, But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, With all the freaks of wanton wealth array 'd, In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, The toiling pleasure sickens into pain — THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 9 And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, The heart distrusting asks, if this bm joy. Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay — 'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and a happy land. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, And shouting folly hails them from her shore ; Hoards even beyond the miser's wish abound, And rich men flock from all the world around; Yet count our gains: this wealth is but a name That leaves our useful products still the same. Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supplied — Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, Space for his horse, his equipage, and hounds ; The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth Has robb'd the neighboring fields of half their growth; His seat, where solitary sports are seen, Indignant spurns the cottage from the green; Around the world each needful product flies, For all the luxuries the world supplies: While thus the land, adorn'd for pleasure — all In barren splendor feebly waits the fall. As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies, 'Nov shares with art the triumph of her eyes — But when those charms are pass'd, for charms are frail, When time advances, and when lovers fail — She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, In all the glaring impotence of dress. Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd: In nature's simplest charms at first array'd— 10 GOLDSMITH. But verging to decline, its splendors rise, Its vistas strike, it* palaces surprise ; While, scourg'd by famine from the smiling land The mournful peasant leads his humble band — And while he sinks, without one arm to save, The country blooms — a garden, and a grave. Where then, ah! where shall poverty reside, To scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, And even the bare-worn common is denied. If to the city sped — what waits him there? To see profusion that he must not share; To see ten thousand baneful arts combined To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; To see each joy the sons of pleasure know, Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe : Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, Ther the pale artist plies the sickly trade; Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign, Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train — Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ; Sure these denote one universal joy! Are these thy serious thoughts? — ah, turn thine eyes Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. She once, perhaps, in village plenty bless'd, Has wept at tales of innocence distress'd — Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn; THE DESERTED VILLAGE, H Now lost to all— her friends, her virtue fled, Near her betrayer's door she lays her head — And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower, With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour When idly first, ambitious of the town, She left her wheel, and robes of country brown. Do thine, sweet Auburn! thine, the loveliest train, Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, At proud men's doors they ask a little breac 1 , Ah, no! To distant climes, a dreary scer^, Where half the convex world intrudes between, Through torrid tracts with fainting steps t^ey go, Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe- Far different there from all that charm'd bafo*^, The various terrors of that horrid shore ; Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, And fiercely shed intolerable day — Those matted woods where birds forget to sing But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling— Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance cro^^'d, Where the dark scorpion gathers death around — Where at each step the stranger fears to wake The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake — Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, And savage men more murderous still than they—' While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. Far different these from every former scene; The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, The breezy covert of the warbling grove, That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day, That call'd them from their native walks away; 12 GOLDSMITH. When the poor exiles, every pleasure pass'd, Hung round their bowers, and fondly look'd their last- And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain For seats like these beyond the western main — And shuddering still to face the distant deep, , Return'd and wept, and still return 'd to weep. The good old sire, the first, prepared to go To new-found words, and wept for others' woe — But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave.* His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, The fond companion of his helpless years, Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, And left a lover's for a father's arms; With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, And bless'd the cot where every pleasure rose, And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear — Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief In all the silent manliness of grief. O luxury ! thou curs'd by Heaven's decree, How ill exchang'd are things like these for thee ; How do thy potions, with insidious joy, Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy! Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, Boast of a florid vigor not their own ; At every draught more large and large they grow, A bloated mass of rank, unwieldy woe — Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound, Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. ' Even now the devastation is begun, And half the business of destruction done ; Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land : THE DESERTED VILLAGE, 13 Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, That idly waiting flaps with ezery gale, Downward they move — a melancholy band — Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand ; Contented toil, and hospitable care, And kind connubial tenderness are there— And piety with wishes placed above, And steady loyalty, and- faithful love. And thou, sweet poetry, thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade, Unfit in these degenerate times of shame To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame — Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, My shame in crowds, my solitary pride — Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so-~= Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, Thou nurse of every virtue — fare thee well. Farewell! and oh! where'er thy voice be tried, On Tornea's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, Whether where equinoctial fervors glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, Redress the rigors of the inclement clime. Aid slighted truth : with thy persuasive strain Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; Teach him, that states of native strength possess'd, Though very poor, may still be very bless'd; That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, As ocean sweeps the labor'd mole away — While self-dependent power can time defy, As rocks resists the billows and the sky. THE TEAYELEE: OR, A PROSPECT OP {SOCIETY. Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, Or by the lazy Scheldt or wandering Po, Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor Against the houseless stranger shuts the door 9 Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies A weary waste expanding to the skies— Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, My heart untravel'd, fondly turns to thee; Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, And drags at each remove a lengthening chaiu. Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, And round his dwelling guardian saints attend: Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire : Bless'd that abode, where want and pain repair, And every stranger finds a ready chair; Bless'd be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, Where all the ruddy family around Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale, Or press the bashful stranger to his food. THE TRAVELER 15 And learn the luxury of doing good. But me, not destined such delights to share, My prime of life in wandering spent and care, Impelled with steps unceasing to pursue Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view, That, like the circle bounding earth and skies, Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies — My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, And find no spot of all the world my own. E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; And placed on high, above the storm's career, Look downward where an hundred realms appear— Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. When thus Creation's charms around combine, Amidst the store, should thankless pride repine? Say, should the philosophic mind disdain That good which makes each humbler bosom vain? Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, These little things are great to little man; And wiser he whose sympathetic mind Exults in all the good of all mankind. Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendor crown'd, Ye fields where summer spreads profusion round, Ye lakes whose vessels catch the busy gale, Ye bending swains that dress the flowery vale— For me your tributary stores combine; Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine! As some lone miser, visiting his store, Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er — Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still- Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, 16 ' GOLDSMITH. Pleased with each good that Heaven to man supplies. Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, To see the hoard of human bliss so small; And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find Some spot that's to real happiness consign'd, Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest, May gather bliss, to see my fellows bless'd. But where to find that happiest spot below, Who can direct, when all pretend to know? The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone Boldly proclaims that happiest spot bis own; Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, And his long nights of revelry and ease; The naked negro, panting at the line, Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. Such is the patriot's boast; where'er we roam, His first, best country ever is at home; And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, And estimate the blessings which they share, Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find An equal portion dealt to all mankind — As different good, by art or nature given To different nations, makes their blessings even c Nature, a mother kind alike to all, . Still grants her bliss at labor's earnest call: ^On Idria's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side; And, though the rocky-crested summits frown, These rocks, by custom turn to beds of down. From art more various are the blessings sent— Wealth, commerce, honor, liberty, content; Yet these each other's power so strong contest, That either seems destructive of the rest, THE TRAVELER. If Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment tails, \And honor sinks where commerce long prevail^ Hence every state to one lov'd blessing prone, Conforms and models life to that alone; Each to the favorite happiness attends, And spurn the plan that aims at other ends — Till carried to excess in each domain, This favorite good begets peculiar pain. But let us try these truths with closer eyes, And trace them through the prospect as it lies: Here, for a while, my proper cares resign'd, Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind ; Like yon neglected shrub, at random cast, That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. Far to the right where Apennine ascend, Bright as the summer, Italy extends: Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, Woods over woods in gay theatric pride, While oft some temple's mouldering tops between With memorable grandeur mark the scene. Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast, The sons of Italy were surely bless'd. Whatever fruits in different climes are found, That proudly rise or humbly court the ground- Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, Whose bright succession decks the varied year— - Whatever sweets salute the northern sky With vernal lives, that blossom but to die — These, here disporting, own the kindred soil, Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil; While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, And sensual bliss is all the nation knows; 18 GOLDSMITH. In florid beauty groves and fields appear — Man seems the only growth that dwindles herfe. Contrasted faults through all his manners reign ; Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain* Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue — And even in pennance planning sins anew r . All evils here contaminate the mind, That opulence departed leaves behind; For w T ealth was theirs — not far remov'd the date, When commerce proudly flourish'd through the state At her command the palace learn'd to rise, Again the long-fall'n column sought the skies, The canvas glow'd, beyond e'en nature warm, The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form; Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, Commerce on other shores display'd her sail ; While naught remain'd of all that riches gave, But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave — And late the nation found, with fruitless skill, Its former strength was but plethoric ill. Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride: From these the feeble heart and long-fallen mind An easy compensation seem to find. Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array 'd, The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade; Processions form'd for piety and love — A mistress or a saint in every grove : But sports like these are all their cares beguil'd, The sports of children satisfy the child. Each nobler aim, repress'd by long control, Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul; While low delights, succeeding fast behind, In happier meanness occupy the mind. TEE TRAVELER. 19 As in those domes, where Csesars once bore sway, Defaced by time and tottering in decay, There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ; And, wandering man could want the larger pile, Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. My soul, turn from them, turn we to survey Where rougher climes a nobler race display — Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansions tread, And force a churlish soil for scanty bread. No product here the barren hills afford But man and steel, the soldier and his sword; No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, But winter lingering chills the la£ of May; No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast. But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. Yet still, e'en here, content can spread a charm, Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts though small He see3 his little lot the lot of all; Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, To shame the meanness of his humble shed — '— No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal, To make him loathe his vegetable meal — But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose, Breasts the keen air, and carols as he goes; With patient angle trolls the finny deep, Or drives his venturous ploughshare to the steep, Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way And drags the struggling savage into day. At night returning, every labor sped, He sits him down, the monarch of a shed; 20 GOLDSMITH. Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze— While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard: Displays Ler cleanly platter on the board: And haply too some pilgrim, thither led, With many a tale repays the nightly bed. Thus every good his native wilds impart Imprints the patriot passion on his heart; And even those hills, that round his mansion rise, Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies: Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, And dear that hill which lifts him to the storm ; And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, Clings close and closer to the mother's breast — So the loud torrent and the whirlwind's roar, But bind him to his native mountains more. Such are the charms to barren states assign'd; Their wants but few, their wishes all confin'd; Yet let them only share the praises due, If few their wants, their pleasures are but few; For every w r ant that stimulates the breast Becomes a source of pleasure when redress'd. Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies, That first excites desire, and then supplies; Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy To fill the languid pause with finer joy; Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame, Catch every nerve and vibrate through the frame : Their level life is but a smouldering fire, Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire; Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer On some high festival of once a veat In wild excess the vulgar breast takes nre, Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. THE TRAVELER. 21 But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow-— Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low; For, as refinement stops, from sire to son Unalter'd, unimprov'd, the manners run — And love's and friendship's finely pointed dart Fall blunted from each indurated heart. Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast May sit, like falcons cowering on the nest; But all the gentler morals, such as play Through life's more cultured walks, and charm the way— « These, far dispers'd, on timorous pinions fly, To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, I turn; and France displays her bright domain. Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease, Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please— How often have I led thy sportive choir, With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire, Where shading elms along the margin grew, And freshen'd from the wave, the zephyr flew ! And haply, though my harsh touch, faltering still- But mock'd all tune and marr'd the dancer's skill — Yet would the village praise my wondrous power, And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour. Alike all ages: dames of ancient days Have led their children through the mirthful maze; And the gay grandsire skill'd in gestic lore, Has f risk'd beneath the burthen of threescore. So bless'd a life these thoughtless realms display, Thus idly busy rolls their world away. Theirs are those arte that mind to mind endear, For honor forms the social temper Lere : Honor, that praise which real merit gams, Or even imaginary worth obtains, 22 GOLDSMITH. Here passes current — paid from hand to hand, It shifts, in splendid traffic, round the land; From courts to camps, to cottages it strays, And all are taught an avarice of praise — They please, are pleased, they give to get esteem, Till, seeming bless'd, they grow to what they seem But while this softer art their bliss supplies, It gives their follies also room to rise ; For praise too dearly lov'd, or warmly sought, Enfeebles all internal strength of thought — And the weak soul, within itself unbless'd, Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art, Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart; Here vanity assumes her pert grimace, And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace; Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, To boast one splendid banquet once a year : The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, Nor weighs the solid worth of self applause. To men of other minds my fancy flies, Embosomed in the deep where Holland lies. Methinks her patient sons before me stand, i Where the broad ocean leans against the land; 1 And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. Onward, methinks, and diligently slow, The firm connected bulwark seems to grow, Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar, Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore — While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile, Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile; The slow canal, the yellow-blossom'd vale, The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, THE TRAVELER. 23 The crowded mart, the cultivated plain — A new creation rescued from his reign. Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil Impels the native to repeated toil, Industrious habits in each bosom reign, And industry begets a love of gain. Hence all the good from opulence that springs, With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, Are here display'd. Their much-lov'd wealth imparts Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts; But view them closer, craft and fraud appear — E'en liberty itself is bartered here. At gold's superior charms all freedom flies ; The needy sell it, and the rich man buys : A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves, Here wretches seek dishonorable graves ; And, calmly bent, to servitude conform, Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. Heavens ! how unlike their Belgic sires of old — Kough, poor, content, ungovernably bold, War in each breast, and freedom on each brow ; How much unlike the sons of Britain now ! Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing And flies where Britain courts the western spring; Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide. „ There, all around the gentlest breezes stray; There gentle music melts on every spray; Creation's mildest charms are there combined, Extremes are only in the master's mind. Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state, With daring aims irregularly great. Pride in their port, defiance in their eye., I see the lords of human kind pass by, 24 GOLDSMITH. Intent on high designs— a thoughtful band, By forms unfashion'd, fresh from Nature's hand, Fierce in their native hardiness of soul. True to imagin'd right, above control; While even the peasant boasts these rights to scan, And learns to venerate himself a man. J Thine, freedom, thine the blessings pictured here> Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear; Too bless'd indeed were such without alloy • But foster'd even by freedom ills annoy. That independence Britons prize too high Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tm: The self-dependent lordlings stand alone — All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown. Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held, Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd; Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, Repress'd ambition struggles round her shore — Till, over-wrought, the general system feels Its motion stop, or frenzy fire the wheels. Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay, As duty, love, and honor, fail to sway, Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. Hence all obedience bows to these alone, And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown; Till time may come, when stripp'd of all her charms. The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms— Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fame — One sink of level avarice shall lie, And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonored die. Yet think not, thus when freedom's ills I state, I mean to flatter kings, or court the great. TEE TRAVELER. 23 Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire, Far from my bosom drive the low desire! And thou, fair freedom, taught alike to feel The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel — Thou transitory flower, alike undone By proud contempt or favor's fostering sun — Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endurel I only would repress them to secure; For just experience tells, in every soil, That those who think must govern those that toil-* And all that freedom's highest aims can reach Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each. Hence, should one order disproportion^ grow, Its double weight must ruin all below. Oh, then, how blind to all that truth requires, "Who think it freedom when a part aspires I Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, Except when fast-approaching danger warms; But when contending chiefs blockade the throne^ Contracting regal power to stretch their own- When I behold a factious band agree To call it freedom when themselves are free — Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law—* The wealth of climes, where savage nations ro:«** Pillag'd from slaves to purchase slaves at home-^ Fear, pity, justice, indignation start, Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart; Till half a patriot, half a coward grown, I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour When first ambition struck at regal power; And thus, polluting honor in its source, Gave wealth to sway the mind with double forca 26 GOLDSMITH. Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore ? Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste? Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain, Lead stern depopulation in her train — And over fields where scatter'd hamlets rose, In barren solitary pomp repose? Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call. The smiling long-frequented village fall? Beheld the dutious son, the sire decay'd, The modest matron, and the blushing maid, Forced from their homes, a melancholy train, To traverse climes beyond the western main — Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, And Niagara stuns with thundering sound? Even now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays Through tangled forests, and through dangerous ways, • Where beasts with man divided empire claim, And the brown Indian marks with murderous aim- There, while above the giddy tempest flies, And all around distressful yells arise— The pensive exile, bending with his woe, To stop too fearful, and too faint to go, Casts a long look where England's glories shine, ^And bids his bosom sympathize with mine. Vain, very vain, my weary search to find That bliss which only centres in the mind. Why have I stray'd from pleasure and repose, To seek a good each government bestows? In every government, though terrors reign, Though tyrant-kings or tyrant-laws restrain^ How small, of all that human hearts endure, That part which laws 01 kings can cause or cu»e1 THE TRAVELER. 27 ©till to ourselves in every place consign*d, Our own felicity we make or find: With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, Glides the smooth current of domestic joy; The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, Zeck's iron crown, and Damiens' bed of steel, To men remote from power but rarely known— Leave reason, faith, and conscience, ail oar ows» THE COTTEK'S SATURDAY NIGHT. INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. " Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short but simple annals of the poor.' 1 — Gray. My loved, my honor'd, much -respected friend! No mercenary bard his homage pays ; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end : My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise: To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's seqester'd scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways: What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween ! November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; The short'ning winter-day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose ; The toil-worn cotter frae his labor goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And, weary, o'er the moor his course does hameward bend. 1 Moan. 30 ROBERT B URNS. At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; Th' expectant wee things, toddlin', stacher through To meet their dad, wi, fiichterin' noise and glee. His wee bit ingle, blinking bonnily, His clean hearthstane, his thrifty wine's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary carking" cares beguile, And makes him quite forget his labor and his toil. Belyve, 1 the elder bairns come drapping in, At service out, among the farmers roun' : Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie Hn A canny errand to neibor town: Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her ee, Comes hame, perhaps to show a braw new gown, Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. Wi' joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet, And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers: 2 The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnoticed, fleet; Each tells the uncos 3 that he sees or hears; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; Anticipation forward points the view. The mother wi' her needle and her shears, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new — The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. Their masters and their mistress' command The younkers a' are warned to obey ; And mind their labors wi' an eydent 4 hand, And ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk 5 or play: 1 By and by. 3 Strange things. 5 Daily. 2 Inquires, 4 Diligent. THE CO TTELVS 8 A TURD A Y NIGHT 31 44 And oh ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! And mind your duty, duly, morn and night! Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, Implore His counsel and assisting might: They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!' But, hark! a rap comes gently to the door. Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, Tells how a neibor lad cam o'er the moor, To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's ee, and flush her cheek; Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name, While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake. Wi* kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; A strappin' youth; he taks the mother's eye; Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, But blate 1 and lathefu', 2 scarce can weel behave; The mother wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave ; Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave. 3 O happy love! — where love like this is found! — heart-felt raptures! — bliss beyond compare! I've pac&d much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare — " If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 1 Bashful. 2 Hesitating. 3 Other people. 32 ROBERT BURNS. Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In other's arms, hreathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale." Is there in human form, that bears a heart, A wretch, a villain, lost to love and truth, That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling smooth! Are honor, virtue, conscience, ail exiled? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Points to the parents fondling o'er their child ? Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wildl But now the supper crowns their simple board, The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food : The soupe 1 their only hawkie 2 does afford, That 'yont the hallan 3 snugly chows her cood : The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, 4 fell, 1 And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid : The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, How 'twas a towmond 6 auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face. They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride; His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, His lyart haffets 7 wearing thin and bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 1 Milk. 4 Well-saved cheese. 7 Gray temples. 2 Cow. 5 Biting. 8 Porch. 6 Twelvemonth. * THE COTTERS SA TUMI) AT NIGHT 38 He wales 1 a portion with judicious care; And "Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn air. They chant their artless notes in simple guise; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim: Perhaps "Dundee's" wild- warbling measures rise, Or plaintive " Martyrs," worthy of the name; Or noble "Elgin" beet 2 the heaven-ward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : Compared with these Italian trills are tame; The tickled ear no heartfelt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. The priest-like father reads the sacred page, How Abram was the friend of God on high ; Or, « Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; Or other holy seers that tuned the sacred lyre. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; How He, who bore in heaven the second name, Had not on earth whereon to lay His head : How His first followers and servants sped, The precepts sage they wrote to many a land: How he, who lone in Patmos vanished, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand: And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. 1 Selects. 2 Nourishes. 84 ROBERT B URNS. • Then kneeling down, to Heaven's eternal King, The saint, the lather, and che husband prays: Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing "* That thus they all shall meet in future days: There ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear; While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. Compared with this, how poor religion's pride, In all the pomp of method, and of art, When men display to congregations wide Devotion's every grace, except the heart! The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole : But, haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul; And in hi9 book of life the inmates poor enrol. Then homeward all take off their several way ; The youngling cottagers retire to rest : The parent pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request That He, who stills the raven's clamorous ne^t, And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, For them and for the. ; r little ones provide ; But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs. That makes her loved at home, revered abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, * Pope's "Windsor Forest." THE GO 'ITERS 8 A TUB DA T NIGHT 35 " An honest man's the noblest work of God; " And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, The cottage leaves the palace for behind. What is a lordling's pomp? — a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined! O Scotia! my dear, my native soil ! For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent Long may the hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace and sweet content ! And, oh ! may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crown and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved isle. O Thou! whopour'd the patriotic tide That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted heart, Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward! Oh, never, never, Scotia's realm desert; But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! TAM O'SHANTER. A TALE. When chapman billies 1 leave the street, And drouthy 2 neibors neibors meet, As market days are wearm' late, And folk begin to tak the gate; 3 While we sit bousing at the nappy, 4 And gettin' fou and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, That lie between us and our hame, Where sits our sulky sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses For honest men and bonny lasses). O Tarn! hadst thou but been sae wise As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice! She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum, 5 A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum. 6 That frae November till October, Ae market day thou wasna sober; That ilka melder,* wi' the miller 1 Fellows. 2 Thirsty. 3 Road. 4 Ale. 5 A worthless fellow. 6 A talker of nonsense, a boaster, and a drunken fool. * Any quantity of corn sent to the mill is called a melder. TAM &SHANTER. 37 Thou sat as lang as thou hadst siller; 1 That every naig- was ca'd a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; That at the Lord's house r even on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jeanf till Monday. She prophesied that, late or soon, Thou wouldst be found deep drown'd in Doon! Or catch' d wi' warlocks i' the mirk, By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames! its gars 3 me greet To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthen'd, sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises! But to our tale:— Ae market night, Tam had got planted unco 4 right, Fast by an ingle, 5 bleezing finely ; Wi' reaming swat, 6 that drank divinely; And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither — They had been fou for weeks thegither! The night drave on wi* saogs and clatter, And aye the ale was growing better: The landlady and Tam grew gracious, Wi* favors secret, sweet, and precious; The Souter tauld his queerest stories, The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: The storm without might rair 7 and rustle — Tam didna mind the storm a whistle. 1 Money. 4 Unusually. 6 Foaming ale. 2 Horse. 5 Fire. 7 Roar. 3 Makes. t Jean Kennedy who kept a public-house in Kirkoswaid. 38 EGBERT BURNS. Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy ! As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure : Kings may be blest, but Tarn was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious! But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, its bloom is shed! Or like the snowfall in the river, A moment white — then melts for ever; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place ; Or like the rainbow's lovely form, Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether time or tide; The hour approaches Tarn maun ride; That hour, o' night's black arch the keystaue, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; And sic a night he takes the road in As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; The rattling showers rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; Loud deep and lang the thunder bellow'd: That night a child might understand The deil had business on his hand. Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, A better never lifted leg, Tarn skelpit 1 on through dub and mire, Despising wind, and rain and fire ; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, 1 Rode with careless speed. TAM VSHANTER. 39 Whiles crooniDg 1 o'er some auld Scots sonnet; Whiles glowering 2 round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles 8 catch him unawares: Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. By this time he was 'cross the foord, Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd; 4 And past the birks and meikle stane Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane; And through the whins, and by the cairn Whare hunters fand the murder' d bairn ; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Whare Mungo's mither hanged hersel. Before him Doon pours a' his floods; The doubling storm roars through the woods; The lightnings flash f rae pole to pole ; Near and more near the thunders roll; When, glimmering through the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seem'd in ableeze; Through ilka bore 5 the beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing. Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! What dangers thou canst mak us scorn! Wi' tipenny, 6 we fear nae evil; Wi' usquebae, 7 we'll face the devil! — The swats sae ream'd 8 in Tammie's noddle, Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, Till, by the heel and had admonish'd, She ventured forward on the light; 1 Humming. 4 Got smothered. 7 Whiskey, 2 Peering. 5 Every hole in the wall. 8 Wrought. 3 Spirits. 6 Twopenny ate. 40 EGBERT BURNS. And, wow! Tarn saw an unco sight! Warlocks and witches in a dance ; Nae cotillon brent-new 1 f rae France But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels. Put life and metal i' their heels : At winnock-bunker,' 2 i' the east, There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; A towzie tyke, 3 black, grim, and large, To gie them music was his charge; He screw' d the pipes, and gart 4 them skirl, 5 Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. 6 Coffins stood round, like open presses, That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses; And by some devilish cantrip slight Each in its cauld hand held a light, — By which heroic Tarn was able To note upon the haly table, A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; Twa span-lang, wee unchristen'd bairns; A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, Wi' his last gasp his gab 7 did gape; Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted ; Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted; A garter, which a babe hid strangled; A knife, a father's throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o' life bereft, The gray hairs yet stack to the heft : s Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu,' Which even to name wad be unlawfu'. As Tammie glower'd, amazed and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: 1 Bran-new. 4 Made, 7 Mouth. 2 A kind of window seat, 5 Scream. 8 Handle, 8 A rough dog, 8 Vibrate. JAM O'SHANTER 41 The piper loud and louder blew. The dancers quick and quicker flew ; They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit. Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, l And coost 2 her duddies 3 to the wark, And linket 4 at it in her sark. 5 Now Tarn! O Tarn! had they been queans, 6 A* plump and strappin' in their teens, Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, 7 Been snaw- white seventeen-hunder linen!* Thir breeks 8 o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gien them aff my hurdies, 9 For ae blink 10 o' the bonny burdies! But wither 'd beldams, auld and droll, Bigwoodie 11 haps, wad spean 12 a foal, Lowpin' and flingin' on a cummock, 13 I wonder didna turn thy stomach. But Tarn kenn'd 14 what was what fu' brawlie, 15 "There was ae winsome wench and walie," 16 t That night enlisted in the core, (Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ; For mony a beast to dead she shot, And perish'd mony a bonny boat, 1 Till each old Beldam 9 Hams, smoked with sweat. 10 Look. 2 Stript. 11 Gallows- worthy. 3 Clothes. 12 Wean. 4 Tripped. 13 Jumping and ca- 5 Shirt. pering on a staff. 6 Young girls. 14 Knew. 7 Greasy flannel. - 15 Full well. 8 These breeches. 16 A hearty girl and jolly. * The manufacturers' term for a fine linen woven in a reed of 1700 divisions,— Ceomek, 1 Allan Ramsay. 42 ROBERT BURNS. And shook baith meikle corn and bear, And kept the country-side in fear.) Her cutty sark, 1 o' Paisley harn, That, while a lassie, she had worn, In longitude though sorely scant} r , It was her best, and she was vauntie. 2 Ah! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, That sark she coft 3 for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her riches,) Wad ever graced a dance o* witches! But here my Muse her wing maim cour, 1 Sic flights are far beyond her power; To sing how Nannie lap and flang, s (A souple jade she was, and Strang,) And how Tarn stood, like ane bewitch'd. And thought his very een enrich'd; Even Satan glower'd, and fidged fu fain. And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main Till first ae caper, syn 6 eanither, Tarn tint 7 his reason a' thegither, And roars out, \ [ Weel done, Cutty-sark V 9 And in an instant a' was dark: And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied; As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 8 When plundering herds assail their Dyke,* As open pussie's mortal foes, When, pop! she starts before their noses As eager runs the market crowd, When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; i Short shirt A Lower. 7 Lost, 2 Proud of it, 5 Jumped and kicked, 8 Fuss, a Bought, 6 Then, 9 Hive. TAM &SHANTER. 43 So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' inony an eldritch 1 screech and hollow. Ah, Tarn! ah, Tarn! thou'it get thy fairin'! 2 In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'l In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin' ! Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the keystane* of the brig; There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they darena cross ; But ere the keystane she could make, The fient 3 a tail she had to shake ! For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle ; 4 But little wist sbe Maggie's mettle — Ae spring brought off her master hale, But left behind her ain gray tail: The Carlin caught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, Ilk man and mother's son, take heed: Whane'er to drink you are inclined, Or cutty- sarks run in your mind, Think! ye may buy the joys owre dear — Remember Tarn o' Shanter's mare. 1 Unearthly. 2 Deserts. 3 Ne'er. 4 Design. * It is a well-known fact that witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any farther than the middle of the next running stream. It may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted traveler that, when he falls in with bogles, whatever danger may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning back. — B. 44 MOBEE T B URJSS. TO A MOUSE- on TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER. 178&. Wee, sleekit, cowrin', tim'rous beastie, Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie ! Thou needna start aw a' sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! 1 I wad be latin, to rin and chase thee, Wi' murd'ring pattle ! 2 I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken nature's social union, And justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, And fellow-mortal ! I doubt na, whyles, 3 but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun liva! A daimen icker in a thrave* 'S asma request: 111 get a blessin' wi' the lave, And never miss't ! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! Its silly wa's the win's are stew in' ! And naething now to big a new ane O' f oggage green ! And bleak December's winds ensuhr, Baith snell 4 and keen ! + flurrying run. 2 Pattle or pettle, the plough spade 3 Sometimes. 4 Sharp. * An ear of corn in a thrave— that is, twenty-four sheaves. TO A MO VISE. 45 Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, And weary winter comin' fast, And cozie 1 here,beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till, crash! the cruel coulter past Out through thy cell. That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble Has cost thee many a weary Dibble! Now thou's turn'd out for a' thy trouble, But house or hauld, To thole 2 the winter's sleety dribble, And cranreuch 3 cauld ! But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain : The best-laid schemes o' mice and men Gang aft a-gley, * And lea'e us nought but grief and pain For promised joy. Still thou art blest, compared wi' me ! The present only toucheth thee: But, och ! I backward cast my ee On prospects drear! And forward, though I canna see, I guess and fear. 1 Oomfortable. 2 Endure. 3 Hoar-frost 46 ROBERT B URJS'S. ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE, WRITTEN WHEN THE AUTHOR WAS GRIEVOUSLY TORMENTED BY THAT DISORDER. My curse upon thy venom'd stang, That shoots my tortured gums alang; And through my lugs gies mony a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance; Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines I When fevers burn, or ague freezes, Rheumatics knaw, or cholic squeezes; Our neighbor's sympathy may ease us, Wi' pitying moan ; But taee— thou hell o' a' diseases, Aye mocks our groan! Adown my beard the slavers trickle! I kick the wee stools o'er the mickle, As round the fire the giglets kickle, 1 To see me loup f- While, raving mad ; I wish a heckle* Were in their doup. Of a ? the numerous human dools, 5 111 hairsts, 4 daft bargains, cutty-stools, Or worthy friends raked i' the mools, 5 Sad sight to see ! 1 The mirthful child- 2 Jump. 4 Harvests . ren laugh. 3 Troubles. 5 Grave-earth. * Flax used to be cleaned and straightened by drawing it many ti'mes through a mass of sharp steel spikes fixed in a bench, points uppermost. This was called a heckle. GREEN GROW THE RASHES, 0! 47 The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, Thou bear'st the gree. Where'er that place be priests ea 1 hell, Whence a' the tones o' misery yell, And ranked plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu' raw, Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell Amang them a' ! O thou grim mischief -making chiel, That gars the notes of discord squeel, Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe thick, Gie a' the faes o' Scotland weal A towmond's toothache! GREEN GROW THE RASHES, 0/ Green grow the rashes, O ! Green grow the rashes, O ! The sweetest hours that e'er I spend, Are spent amang the lasses, O ! There's nought but care on every han', In every hour that passes, O: What signifies the life o' man, An 'twere na for the lasses, O ? The warl'ly race may riches chase, And riches still may fly them, O ; And though at last they catch them fast Their hearts can ne 5 er enjoy them, O. 48 ROBERT BURNS. But gie me a canny 1 hour at een, My arms about my dearie, O, And warl'ly cares, and warl'ly men, May a' gae tapsalteerie, 2 O. For you sae douce, 3 ye sneer at this, Ye're nought but senseless asses, O; The wisest man the warl' e'er saw He dearly loved the lasses, O. Auld Nature swears the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, O; Her 'prentice hand she tried on man, And then she made the lasses, O. AULD LANG SYNE. Should auld acquaintance be forgot And never brought to min'? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' lang syne? For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne ! "We twa hae run about the braes, And pu'd the go wans fine; But we've wander'd mony a weary foot, Sin* auld lang syne. 1 Happy, lucky— quiet. . 2 Topsy-turvy. 3 Grave, UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. 49 We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, Frae morning sun till dine : But seas between us braid hae roar'd Sin* auld lang syne. And here's a hand, my trusty flere, 1 And gies a hand o' thine; And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught 2 For auld lung syne! And surely ye'll be your pint-stoup, And surely I'll be mine; And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne. UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. The chorus of this song is old; but the two stanzas are Burns'a CHORUS. Up in the morning's no for me, Up in the morning early ; When a' the hills are covered wi' snaw, I'm sure it's winter fairly. Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west, The drift is driving sairly; Sae loud and shrill I hear the blast, I'm sure it's winter fairly. The birds sit cluttering 3 in the thorn, A' day they fare but sparely; And lang's the night frae e'en to morn, I'm sure it's winter fairly. 1 Friend, 2 Draught, 8 Shivering. 50 EGBERT BURNS. JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. John Anderson, my jo, 1 John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonny brow was brent.' 3 But now your brow is held, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, £ John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my Jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And mony a canty 1 day, John, We've had wi' ane anither : Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go ; And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo. HIGHLAND MARY. Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green bey our woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie ! 5 There simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry ; For there I took the last fareweel O' my sweet Highland Mary. 1 Love— dear. 3 Head. 2 Smooth. 4 Happy. 5 Muddy, HIGHLAND MARY. 51 How sweetly bloom'd the gay green Mrk ! How rich the hawthorn's blossom ! As underneath their fragrant shade, I clasp'd her to my bosom! The golden hours, on angtd wings, Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me, as light and life, Was my sweet Highland Mary! Wfmony a vow, and lock'd embrace, Our parting was fu' tender; And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder; But oh! fell Death's untimely frost, That nipt my flowers sae early! — Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary! Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly! And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly ! And mouldering now in silent dust That heart that lo'ed me dearly — But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary! 52 ROBERT B URNS, OH, WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD. Oh, whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad, Oh, whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad : Though father and mither and a' should gae mad, Oh, whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. But warily tent 1 when you come to court me, And come na unless the back yett- be a-jee; ' Syne up the back stile, and let naebody see, And come as ye were na comin' to me. At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, Gang by me as though that ye cared na a flie; But steal me a blink o' your bonny black ee, Yet look as ye were na looking at me. Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, And whiles ye may lightly 3 my beauty a wee; - But court na anither, though jokin' ye be, For fear that she wile your fancy frae me. BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY AT BANNOCKBURN. Scots, whae hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has af ten led ; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to Victory! Now's the day, and now's the hour; See the front o' battle lour ( 1 Carefully heed. 2 Gate 3 Disparage- CONTENTED WT LITTLE. 53 See approach proud Edward's power — Chains and slavery ! Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can rill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a slave ! Let him turn and flee ! Wha, for Scotland's king and law, Freedom's sword will strongly draw;— ■ Freeman stand, or freeman fa', Let him follow me! By Oppression's woes and pains ! By your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free ! Lay the proud usurpers low ! Tyrants fall in every foe ! Liberty's in every blow ! Let us do or die ! CONTENTED WI' LITTLE. Contented wi' little, and can tie 1 wi' mair, Whene'er I forgather 2 wi' sorrow and care, I gie them a skelp, 3 as they're creeping alang, Wi' a cog o' guid swats, 4 and an auld Scottish sang. I whiles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought ; Bat man is a sodger, and life is a f aught; My mirth and guid humor are coin in my pouch, And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch. 1 Happy. 3 Whack. 2 Meet. 4 Flagon of ale. 54 R OBERT B URNS. A towaiond 1 o' trouble, shoud that be my fa' A night o' guid fellow-ship sowthers 2 it a' : When at the blithe end o' our journey at last, Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has p^st ? Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte 3 on her way; Bet to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae : Come ease or come travail ; come pleasure or pain : My warst word is— " Welcome, and welcome again! COMING THROUGH THE RYE Coming through the rye, poor body Coming through the rye, She draiglet 4 a' her petticoatie, Coming through the rye. O Jenny's a' wat, poor body, Jenny's seldom dry; She draiglet a' her petticoatie, Coming through the rye. Gin 5 a body meet a body Coming through the rye; Gin a body kiss a body — Need a body cry? Gin a body meet a body Coming through the glen ; Gin a body kiss a body — Need the warld ken? 1 Twelvemonth. 2 Solders . 3 Stagger and stumble. 4 Soiled. 5 If. A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT. 55 A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT. Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head and a' that? The coward slave, we pass him by We dare be poor for a' that ! For a' that, and a' that, Our toils obscure, and a' that ; The rank is but the guinea-stamp, The man's the gowd for a' that ! What though on hamely fare we dine, Wear hodden gray, and a' that ; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man's a man for a' that! For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show and a' that; The honest man, though e'er so poor, Is king o' men for a' that ! Ye see yon birkie,* ca'd a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that Though hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof 1 for a' that: For a' that, and a' that, His riband, star, and a' that ; The man of independent mind, • He looks and laughs at a' that ! A king cm mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that; But an honest man's aboon his might, Guid faith he maunna 2 fa' that ! * Literally the phrase means a mettlesome fellow : here it must be rendered a proud and affected fellow. 1 Fool, 2 " He maunna fa' that "«= he must not try that. 56 ROBERT BURKS. For a' that, and a' that, Their dignities, and a' that, The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, Are higher ranks than a' that. Then let us pray that come it may — As come it will for a' that — That sense and worth, o'er a' the eartfc, May bear the gree, and a' that ; For a' that, and a* that, It's comin' yet for a' that, That man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that ! HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. Six hundred years ago, in Dante's time, Before his cheek was furrowed by deep rhyme- When Europe, fed afresh from Eastern story, Was like a garden tangled with the glory Of flowers hand-planted and of flowers air-sown, Climbing and trailing, budding and full-blown, Where purple bells are tossed amid pink stars, And springing blades, green troops in innocent warSj Crowd every shady spot of teeming earth, Making invisible motion visible birth — Six hundred years ago, Palermo town Kept holiday. A deed of great renown, A high revenge, had freed it from the yoke Of hated Frenchmen, and from Calpe's rock To where the Bosporus caught the earlier sun, 'Twas told that Pedro, King of Aragon, Was welcomed master of all Sicily, A royal knight, supreme as kings should be In strength and gentleness that make high chivalry. Spain was the favorite home of knightly grace, Where generous men rode steeds of generous race; Both Spanish, yet half Arab, both inspired By mutual spirit, that each motion tired 58 GEORGE ELIOT. With beautious response, like minstrelsy Afresh fulfilling fresh expectancy. So when Palermo made high festival; The joy of matrons and of maiden's all Was the mock terror of the tournament, Where safety, with the glimpse of danger blent, Took exhaltation as from epic song, Which greatly tells the pains that to great life belong, And in all eyes King Pedro was the king Of cavaliers: as in a full-gemmed ring The largest ruby, or as that bright star Whose shining shows us where the Hyads are. His the best jennet, and he sat it best; His weapon, whether tilting or in rest, Was worthiest watching, and his face once seen Gave to the promise of his royal mien Such rich fulfillment as the opened eyes Of a loved sleeper, or the long-watched rise Of vernal day, whose joy o'er stream and meadow flies. But of the maiden forms that thick enwreathed The broad piazza and sweet witchery breathed, With innocent faces budding all arow From balconies and windows high and low, Who was it felt the deep mysterious glow, The impregnation with supernal fire Of young ideal love — transformed desire, Whose passion is but worship of that Best Taught by the many-mingled creed of each young breast ? 'Twas gentle Lisa, of no noble line, Child of Bernardo, a rich Florentine, Who from his merchant-city hither came To trade in drugs; yet kept an honest fame, ROW LISA LOVED THE KING. 59 And had the virtue not to try and sell Drugs that had none. He loved his riches well, But loved them chiefly for his Lisa's sake, Whom with a father's care he sought to make The bride of some true honorable man :— Of Perdicone (so rumor ran), Whose birth was higher than bis fortunes were; For still your trader likes a mixture fair Of blood that hurries to some higher strain Than reckoning money's loss or money's gain. And of such mixture good may surely come: Lords' scions so may learn to cast a sum, A trader's grandson bear a well-set head, And have less conscious mauners, better bred; Nor, when he tries to be polite, to be rude instead.. 'Twas Perdicone's friends made overtures To good Bernardo ; so one dame assures Her neighbor dame who notices the youth Fixing his eyes on Lisa; and in truth Eyes that could see her on this summer day Might find it hard to turn another way. She had a pensive beauty, yet not sad ; Rather, like minor cadences that glad The hearts of little birds amid spring boughs; And oft the trumpet or the joust would rouse Pulses that gave her cheek a finer glow, Parting her lips that seemed a mimic bow By chiselling Love for play in coral wrought, Then quickened by him with the passionate thought, The soul that trembled in the lustrous night Of slow long eyes. Her body was so slight, It seemed she could have floated in the sky, And with the angelic choir made symphony; 60 GEORGE ELIOT, But in her cheek's rich tinge, and in the dark Of darkest hair and eyes, she bore a mark Of kinship to her generous mother earth, The fervid land that gives the plumy palm-trees birth She saw not Perdicone; her young mind Dreamed not that any man had ever pined For such a little simple maid as she: She had but dreamed how heavenly it would be To love some hero, noble, beauteous, great, Who would live stories worthy to narrate, Like Roland, or the warriors of Troy, The Cid, or Amadis, or that fair boy Who conquered everything beneath the sun, And somehow, some time, died at Babylon Fighting the Moors. For heroes all were good And fair as that archangel who withstood The Evil One, the author of all wrong — That Evil One who made the French so strong ; And now the flower of heroes must be he Who drove those tyrants from dear Sicily, So that her maids might walk to vespers tranquilly. Young Lisa saw this hero in the king, And as wood-lilies that sweet odors bring Might dream the light that opes the modest eyrie Was lily- odor ed, — and as rites divine, Round turf -laid altars, or 'neath roofs of stone, Draw sanctity from out the heart alone That loves and worships, so the miniature Perplexed of her soul's world, all virgin pure, Filled with heroic virtues that bright form, Raona's royalty, the finished norm Of horsmanship — the half of chivalry; For how could generous men avengers be, HO W LISA LO VED THE KING . 61 Save as God's messengers on coursers fleet?-— Tlicse scouring earth, made Spain with Syria meet 1 1 one self world where the same right had sway, Aod good must grow as grew the blessed day. l\o more; great Love his essence had endured With Pedro's form, and entering subdued The soul of Lisa, fervid and intense, Proud in its choice of proud obedience To hardship glorified by perfect reverence. Sweet Lisa homeward carried that dire guest, And in her chamber through the hours of rest The darkness was alight for her with sheen Of arms, and plumed helm, and bright between Their commonor gloss, like the pure living spring 'Tvrixt porphyry lips, or living bird's bright wing 'Twixt golden wires, the glances of the king Flashed on her soul, and waked vibrations there Of known delights love-mixed to new and rare: The impalpable dream was turning to breathing flesh, Chill thought of summer to the warm close mesh Of sunbeams held between the citron-leaves. Clothing her life of life. Oh, she believes That she could be content if he but knew (Her poor small self could claim no other due) How Lisa's lowly love had highest reach Of winged passion, whereto winged speech Would be scorched remnants left by mounting flame. Though, had she such lame message, were it blame To tell what greatness dwelt in her, what rank She held in loving? Modest maidens shrank From telling love that fed on selfish hope; But love as hopeless as the shattering song Wailed for love beings who had joined the throng 62 QEOBOE ELIOT. Of mighty dead ones. . . Nay, but she was weak- Knew only prayers and ballads — could not speak With eloquence save what dumb creatures have, That with small cries and touches small booms crave. She watched all day that she might see him pass With knights and ladies; but she said, " Alas! Though he should see me, it were all as one He saw a pigeon sitting on the stone Of wall or balcony : some colored spot His eye just sees, his mind regardeih not. I have no music-touch that could bring nigh My love to his soul's hearing. I shall die, And he will never know who Lisa was — The trader's child, whose soaring spirit rose As hedge- born aloe-flowers that rarest years disclose. "For were I now a fair deep-breasted queen A-horseback, with blonde hair, and tunic green Gold-bordered like Costanza, I should need No change within to make me queenly there; For they the royal-hearted women are Who nobly love the noblest, yet have grace For needy suffering lives in lowliest place, Carrying a choicer sunlight in their smile, The heavenliest ray that pitieth the vile. My love is such, it cannot choose but soar Up to the highest: yet for evermore, Though I were happy, throned beside the king, I should be tender to each little thing With hurt warm breast, that had no speech to tell Its inward pang, and I would soothe it well With tender touch and with a low soft moan For company: my dumb love-pang is lone, Prisoned as topaz- beam within a rough-garbed stone.' HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 63 So, inward-wailing, Lisa passed her days. Each night the August moon with changing phase Looked broader, harder on her unchanged pain; Each noon the heat lay heavier again On her despair; until her body frail Shrank like the snow that watchers in the vale See narrowed on the height each summer morn; While her dark glance burnt larger, more forlorn, As if the soul within her all on fire Made of her being one swift funeral pyre, Father and mother saw with sad dismay The meaning of their riches melt away: For without Lisa what would sequins buy? What wish were left if Lisa were to die? Through her they cared for summers still to come.. Else they would be as ghosts without a home In any flesh that could feel glad desire. They pay the best physicians, never tire Of seeking what will soothe her, promising That aught she longed for, though it were a thing Hard to be come at as the Indian snow, Or roses that on Alpine summits blow — It should be hers. She answers with low voice, She longs for death alone — death is her choice ; Death is the King w T ho never did think scorn, But rescues every meanest soul to sorrow born. Yet one day, as they bent above her bed And watched her in brief sleep, her drooping head Turned gently, as the thirsty flowers that feel Some moist revival through their petals steal, And little flutterings of her lids and lips Told of such dreamy joy as sometimes dips A skyey shadow in the mind's poor pool. 64 GEORGE ELIOT. She oped her eyes, and turned their dark gems full Upon her father, as in utterance dumb Of some new prayer that in her sleep had come. " What is it, Lisa?" " Father, I would see Minuccio, the great singer ; bring him me. " For always, night and day, her unstilled thought, Wandering ail o'er its little world, had sought 1 How she could reach, by some soft pleading touch King Pedro's soul, that she who loved so much Dying, might have a place within his mind — A little grave which he w T ould sometimes find And plant some flower on it — some thought, some memory kind. Till in her dream she saw Minuccio Touching his viola, and chanting low A strain that, falling on her brokenly, Seemed blossoms lightly blown from off a tree, Each burthened with a word that was a scent — Raona, Lisa, love, death, tournament; Then in her dream she said, " He sings of me — Might be my messenger; a', now I see The king is listening " Then she awoke, And, missing her dear dream, that new-born longing spoke. •She longed for music : that was natural ; Physicians said it was medicinal; The humors might be schooled by true consent Of a fine tenor and fine instrument; In brief, good music, mixed with doctor's stui? Apollo with Asklepios— enough ! Minuccio, entreated, gladly came. (He was a singer of mosfc gentle fame — A noble, kindly spirit, not elate HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 65 That he was famous, but that song was great — Would sing as finely to this suffering child As at the court where princes on him smiled.) Gently he entered and sat down by her, Asking what sort of strain she would prefer — The voice alone, or voice with viol wed ; Then, when she chose the last, he preluded With magic hand, that summoned from the strings Aerial spirits,, rare yet vibrant wings That fanned the pulses of his listener, And waked each sleeping sense with blissful stir. Her cheek already showed a slow faint blush, But soon the voice, in pure full liquid rush, Made all the passion, that till now she felt, Seem but cool waters that in warmer melt. Finished the song, she prayed to be alone With kind Minuccio; for her faith had grown To trust him as if missioned like a pr est With some high grace, that when his singing ceased Still made him wiser, more magnanimous Than common men who had no genius. So laying her small hand within his palm, She told him how that secret glo ious harm Of loftiest loving had befallen her; That death, her only hope, most bitter were. If when she died her love must perish too As songs unsung and thoughts unspoken do, Whicli else might live within another breast. She said, " Minuccio, the grave were rest, If I were sure, that lying cold and lone, My love, my best of life, had safely flown And nestled in the bosom of the king; See, 'tis a small weak bird, with unfledged wings. 66 GEORGE ELIOT. But you will carry it for rue secretly, And bear it to the king, theu come to me And tell me it is safe, and I shall go Content, knowing that he I love my love doth know." Then she wept silently, but each large tear Made pleading music to the inward ear Of good Minuccio. 4 ' Lisa, trust in me," He said, and kissed her fingers loyally; " It is sweet law to me to do your will, And ere the sun his round sball trice fulfil, I hope to bring you news of such rare skill As amulets have, that a'ches in trusting bosoms still." He needed not to pause and first devise How he should tell the king; for in nowise Were such love-message worthily bested Save in fine verse by music rendered. He sought a poet-friend, a Siennese, And " Mico, mine," he said, "full oft to please Thy whim of sadness I have sung thee strains To make thee weep in verse : now pay my pains, And write me a canzon divinely sad, Sinlessly passionate and meekly mad With young despair, speaking a maiden's heart Of fifteen summers, who w T ould fain depart From ripening life's new-urgent mystery — Love-choice of one too high her love to be — But cannot yield her breath till she has poured Her strength away in this hot-bleeding word Telling the secret of her soul to her soul's lord." Said Mico, "Nay, that thought is poesy, I need but listen as it sings to me. Come thou again to-morrow." The third day, When linked notes had perfected the lay, HO W LISA L VED THE KING. 67 Municcio had his summons to the court To make, as he was wont, the moments short Of ceremonious dinner to th3 king. This was the time when he had meant to bring Melodious message of young Lisa's love: He waited till the air had ceased to move To ringing silver, till Falernian wine Made quickened sense with quietude combine, And then with passionate descant made each ear incline. Love, thou didst see me, light as morning's breath, Roaming a garden in a joyous error ■, laughing at chases vai^i, a happy child, Till of thy countenance the alluring terror In majesty from out the blossoms smiled, From out their life seeming a beauteous Heath. Love, who so didrf choose me for thine own, /Taking this little isle to thy great sway See now, it is the honor of thy* throne That what thou gavest perish not away, Nor leave some sweet remembrance to atone By life that will be for the brief life gone : Hear, ere the shroud o'er these frail limbs be thrown Since every king is vassal unto thee, My heart's lord needs must listen loyally— tell him I am waiting for my Death ! Tell him, for that he hath such royal power 'Twere hard for him to think hoio small a thing , How slight a sign, would make a loealihy doicer For one like me, the bride of that pale king Whose bed is mine at some swift-near 'ing hour. Go to my lord, arid to his memory bring That happy birthday of my sorrowing 68 GEORGE ELIOT. When his large glance made meaner gazers glad, Entering the bannered lists: 'tcca\ then I had The wound that laid me i i th \ arms of Death. Tell him, Love, I am a lowly maid, No more than any little knot of thyme That he wifi careless foot mxy often tread, ; Yet lowest fragrxnee eft will mount sublime And cleave to things most high and hallowed. As doth th3 fragrance of my life's springtime, My lowly love, that soaring seeks to climb Within his thought, and make a gentle bliss y More blissful than if mine, in being- his : So shall Hive in him and rest in Death. The strain was new. It seemed a pleading cry, And yet a rounded perfect melody, Making grief beauteous as the tear-filled eyes Of little child at little miseries. Trembling at first, then swelling as it rose, Like Rising light that broad and broader grows, It filled the hall, and so possessed the air That not one breathing soul was present there, Though dullest, slowest, but was quivering In music's grasp, and forced to hear her sing. But most such sweet compulsion took the mood Of Pedro (tired of doing what he would). Whether the words which that strange meaning bore, Were but the poet's feigning or aught more, Was bounden question, since their aim must be At some imagined or true royalty. He called Minuccio and bade him tell What poet of the day had writ so well ; For though they came behind all former rhymes, BOW LISA LOVED THE KIXG. 69 The verses were not bad for these poor times. " Monsignor, they are only three days old," Minuccio said; " but it must not be told How this song grew, save to your royal ear. " Eager, the king withdrew where none was near, And gave close audience to Minuccio, Who meetly told that love-tale meet to know. The king had features pliant to confess The presence of a manly tenderness — Son, father, brother, lover, blent in one, In line harmonic exultation — The spirit of religious chivalry. He listened, and Minuccio could see The tender generous admiration spread O'er all his face, and glorify his head With royalty that would have kept its rank Though his brocaded robes to tatters shrank. He answered without pause, " So sweet a maid, In nature's own insignia arrayed, Though she were come of unmixed trading blood That sold and bartered ever since the Flood, Would have the self-contained and single worth Of radiant jewels born in darksome earth. Raona were a shame to Sicily, Letting such love aod tears unhonored be: Hasten, Minuccio, tell her that the king To-day will surely visit her when vespers ring." Joyful, Minuccio bore the joyous word, And told at full, while none but Lisa heard, How each thing had befallen sang the song And like a patient nurse who would prolong All means of soothing, dwelt upon each tone, Each look, with which the mighty Aragon 70 GEORGE ELIOT. Marked the high worth his royal heart assigned To that dear place he held in Lisas mind. She listened till the draughts of pure content Through all her limbs like some new being went — Life, not recovered, but untried before. From out the growing world's unmeasured store Of fuller, better, more divinely mixed, 'Twas glad reverse: she had so firmly fixed To die, already seemed to fall a veil Shrouding the inner glow from light of senses pale. Her parents wondering see her half arise— Wondering, rejoicing, see her long dark eyes Brimful with clearness, not of 'scaping tears, But of some light ethereal that enspheres Their orbs with calm, some vision newly learnt Where strangest fires erewhile had blindly burnt. She asked to have her soft white robe and band And coral ornaments, and with her hand She gave her locks' dark length a backward fall, Then looked intently in a mirror small, And feared her face might perhaps displease the king; " In truth," she said, "I am a tiny thing; I was too bold to tell what could such visit bring." Meanwhile the king, revolving in his thought That virgin passion, was more deeply wrought To chivalrous pity; and at vesper bell, With careless mien w r hich hid his purpose well, Went forih on horseback, and as if b} r chance Passing Bernardo's house, he paused to glance At the fine garden of this wealthy man, This Tuscan trader turned Palermitan; But, presently dismounting, chose to walk Amid the trellises, in gracious talk HO WL1SA LO VED THE KING. 71 With this same trader, deigning even to ask If he had yet fulfilled the father's task Of marrying that daughter whose young charms Himself, betwixt the passages of arms, Noted admiringly. "Monsignor, no, She is not married; that were little woe, Since she has counted barely fifteen years; But all such hopes of late have turned to fears ; She droops and fades ; though for a space quite brief — Scarce three hours past — she finds some strange relief.' The king avised : ' ' 'Twere dole to all of us, The world should lose a maid so beauteous; Let me now see her; since I am her liege lord, Her spirits must wage war with death at my strong word.'* In such half -serious playfulness, he wends, With Lisa's father and two chosen friends, Up to the chamber where she pillowed sits Watching the open door, that now admits A presence as much better than her dreams, As happiness than any longing seems. The king advanced, and wi'h a reverent kiss Upon her hand, said, w Lady, what is this? You, whose sweet youth should others' solace be, Pierce all our hearts, languishing piteously. We pray you, for the love of us, be cheered, Nor be too reckless of that life, endeared To us who know your passing worthiness, And count your blooming life as part of our life's bliss. " Those words, that touch upon her hand from him Whom her soul worshipped, as far seraphim Worship the distant glory, brought some ><.hame Quivering upon her cheek, yet thrilled her frame 72 GEORGE ELIOT. With such deep joy she seemed in paradise, In wondering* gladness, and in dumb surprise That bliss could be so blissful: then she spoke— " Signor, I was too weak to bear the yoke, The golden yoke of thoughts too great for me That was the ground of my infirmity. But now, I pray your grace to have belief That I shall soon be well, nor any more cause grief. '" The king alone perceived the covert sense Of all her words, which made one evidence With her pure voice and candid loveliness That he had lost much honor, honoring less That message of her passionate distress. H3 stayed beside her for a little while With gentle looks and speech, until a smile As placid as a ray of early morn On opening flower-cups o'er her lips was borne. When he had left her, and the tidings spread Through all the town how he had visited The Tuscan trader's daughter, who was sick, Men said it was a royal deed and Catholic. And Lisa? she no longer wished for death; But as a poet, whose sweet voices saith Within his soul, and joys in music there, Nor seeks another heaven, nor can bear Disturbing pleasures so was she content, Breathing the life of grateful sentiment, She thought no maid betrothed could be more blest; For treasure must be valued by the test Of highest excellence and rarity, And her dear joy was best as best could be; There seemed no other crown to her delight HO W LISA L VED THE KING. 73 Now the high loved one saw her love aright. Thus her soul thriving on that exquisite mood, Spread like the May-time all its beauteous good O'er the soft bloom of neck, and arms, and cheek, And strengthened the sweet body, once so weak, Until she rose and walked, and, like a bird "With sweetly rippling throat, she made her spring joys heard. The king, when he the happy change had seen, Trusted the ear of Constance, his fair queen, With Lisa's innocent secret, and conferred How they should jointly, by their deed and word, Honor this maiden's love, which like the prayer, Of loyal hermits, never thought to share In what it gave. The queen had that chief grace Of womanhood, a heart that can embrace All goodness in another woman's form ; And that da} 7- , ere the sun lay too warm, On southern terraces a messenger Informed Bernardo that the royal pair Would straightway visit him and celebrate Their gladness at his daughter's happier state, Which thsy were fain to see. Soon came the king On horseback, with his barons heralding The advent of the queen in courtly state; And all, descending at the garden gate, Streamed with their feathers, velvet, and brocade, Through the bleached alleys, till they, pausing, made A lake of splendor 'mid the aloes gray — When, meekly facing all their proud array, The white-robed Lisa with her parents stood, As some white dove before the gorgeous brood Of dapple-breasted birds born by the Colchian Hood. 74 GEORGE ELIOT. The king and queen, by gracious looks and speech, Encourage her, and thus their courtiers teach How this fair morning they may courtliest be By making Lisa pass it happily. And soon the ladies and the barons all Draw her by turns, as at a festival Made for her sake, to easy gay discourse, And compliment with looks and- smiles enforce; A joyous hum is heard the gardens round; Soon there is Spanish dancing and the sound Of minstrel's song, and autumn fruits are pluckt; Till mindfully the king and queen conduct Lisa apart to where a trellised shade Made pleasant resting. Then King Pedro said — ' ' Excellent maiden that rich gift of love Your heart hath made us, hath a worth above All royal treasures, nor is fitly met Save when the grateful memory of deep debt Lies still behind the outward honors done And as a sign that no oblivion Shall overflood that faithful memory, We while we live your cavalier will be, In or will we ever arm ourselves for fight, "Whether for struggle dire or brief delight Of warlike feigning, but first will take The colors you ordain, and for your sake Charge the more bravely where your emblem is; Nor will we ever claim an added bliss To our sweet thoughts of you save one sole kiss. But there still rests the outward honor meet To mark your worthiness, and we entreat That you will turn your ear to proffered vows Of one who loves you, and woul be your spousa We must net ^rong yourself and Sicily HO W LISA LO VED TEE KING. 75 By letting all your blooming years pass by Unmated:you will give the world its due From beauteous maiden and become a matron true." Then Lisa, wrapt in virgin wonderment At her ambitious love's complete content, Which left no further good for her to seek Than love's obedience, said with accent meek — "Monsignor, I know well that wer^ it known To all the world how high my love had flown, There would be few who would not deem me mad, Or say my mind the falsest image had Of my condition and your lofty place. But heaven has seen that for no moment's space Have I forgotten you to be the king, Or me myself to be a lowly thing — A little lark, enamored of the sky, That soared to sing, to break its breast, and die. But, as you better know than I, the heart In choosing chooseth not its own desert, But that great merit which attracteth it ; 'Tis law, I struggled, but I must submit, And having seen a worth all worth above, I loved you, love you, and shall always love. But that doth mean, my will is ever yours, Not only when your will my good insures, But if it wrought me what the world calls harm — Fire, wounds, would w T ear from your dear will a charm. That you will be my knight is full content, And for that kiss — I pray, first for the queen's consent." Her answer, given with such firm gentleness, Pleased the queen well, and made her hold no less Of Lisa's merit than the king had held. 76 GEORGE ELIOT. And so, all cloudy threats of grief dispelled, There was betrothal made that very morn 'Twixt Perdicone, youthful, brave, well-born, And Lisa, whom he loved; she loving well The lot that from obedience befell. The queen a rare betrothal ring on each Bestowed, and other gems, with gracious speech. And that no joy might lack, the king, who knew The youth was poor, gave him rich Ceffalu And Cataletta, large and fruitful lands- Adding much promise when he joined their hands. At last he said to Lisa, with an air Gallant yet noble: " Now we claim our share From your sweet love, a share which is not small ; For iu the sacrament one crumb is all. " Then taking her small face his hands between, He kissed her on the brow with kiss serene, Fit seal to that pure vision her young soul had seen. Sicilians witnessed that King Pedro kept His royal promise: Perdicone slept To many honors honorably won, Living with Lisa in true union. Throughout his life the king still took delight To call himself fair Lisa's faithful knight; And never wore in field or tournament A scarf or emblem save by Lisa sent. Such deeds made subjects loyal in that land ; They joyed that one so worthy to command, So chivalrous and gentle, had become The king of Sicily, and filled the room Of Frenchmen, wii > abused the Church's trust, Till, in a righteous vengeance on their lust, Messina rose, with God, and with the dagger's thrust. HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 77 L 'envoi. Header, this story pleased me long ago In the blight pages of Boccaccio, And where the author of a good tee know, Let us not fail to pay the grateful thanks we owe. SONGS OF SEVEN, SEVEN TIMES ONE. EXULTATION, There's no dew left on the daisies and clover, There's no rain left in heavens I've said my " seven times" over and over, Seven times one are seven. I am old, so old, T can write a letter; My birthda}^ lessons are done; The lambs play always, they know no better; They are only one times one. moon ! in the night I have seen you sailing And shining so round and low ; You were bright! ah bright! but your light is failing— You are nothing now but a bow. You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven That God has hidden your face? 1 hope if you have you will soon be forgiven, And shine again in your place. O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow, You've powdered your legs with gold ! brave marsh marybuds, rich and yellow, Give me your money tc hold ! 80 JEAN INGELO W. O columbine, open your folded wrapper, Where two twin turtle-doves dwell ! cuckoo pint, tell me the purple clapper That hangs in your clear green bell ! And show me your nest with the young ones in it I will not steal them away; 1 am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet — I am seven times one to-day. SEVEN TIMES TWO. ROMANCE. You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes, How many soever they be, And let the brown meadow -lark's note as he ranges Come over, come over to me. Yet bird's clearest carol by fall or by swelling No magical sense conveys, And bells have forgotten their old art of telling The fortune of future days. " Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily, While a boy listened alone; Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily All by himself on a stone. Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over, And mine, they are yet to be. No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover: You leave the story to me. The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather, And haugeth her hoods of snow ; . SONGS OF SEVEN. 81 She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather: O, children take long to grow. I wish, and I wish that the spring would go faster, Nor long summer bide so late; And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, For some things are ill to wait. I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, While dear hands are laid on my head ; *' The child is a woman, the book may close over. For all the lessons are said." I wait for my story — the birds cannot sin*- it, Not one, as he sits on the tree; The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O bring it! Such as I wish it to be. SEVEN TIMES THREE. LOVE. I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover, Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate; " Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover — " Hush, nightingale, hush! O, sweet nightingale, wait Till I listen and hear If a step draweth near, For my love he is late ! "The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer: To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see? Let the star-clusters grow. 82 JEAN INGE LOW. Let the sweet waters flow, And cross quickly to me. "You night-moths that hover where honey brims over From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep ; You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover To him that comes darkling along the rough steep. Ah, my sailor, make haste For the time runs to waste, And my love lieth deep— " Too deep for swift telling; and yet my one lover I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover, Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight; But I'll love him more, more Than e'er wife loved before, Be the days dark or bright. SEVEN TIMES FOUR. MATERNITY. Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups, Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall! When the wind wakes how they rock in the grasses, And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small! Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses, Eager to gather them all Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups! Mother shall thread them a daisy chain; Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow, SONGS OF SEVEN 8S That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain ; Sing, "Heart, thou art wide though the house be but narrow " — Sing once, and sing it again. Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups, Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow; A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, And haply one musing doth stand at her prow. O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little daughters, Maybe he thinks on you now! Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups, Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall — A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall ! Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its measure, God that is over us all! SEVEN TIMES FIVE. WIDOWHOOD. I sleep and rest, my heart makes moan Before I am well awake ; "Let me bleed! O let me alone, Since I must not break!" For children wake, though fathers sleep With a stone at foot and at head: sleepless God, forever keep, Keep both living and dead! 1 lift mine eyes, and what to see But a world happy and fair 1 £4 JEA N ING EL W. I have not wished it to mourn with me— Comfort is not there. O what anear but golden brooms, And a waste of reedy rills! what afar but the tine glooms On the rare blue hills! 1 shall not die, but live forlore — How bitter it is to part ! to meet thee, my love, once more! O my heart, my heart ! No more to hear, no more to see ! that an echo might wake And waft one note of thy psalm to me Ere my heart. strings break! 1 should know it how faint soe'er, And with angel voices blent; O once to feel thy spirit anear, 1 could be content! Or once between the gates of gold, While an angel entering trod, But once— thee sitting to behold On the hills of God ! SEVEN TIMES SIX. GIVING IN MARRIAGB To bear, to nurse, to rear A To watch, and then to lose: To see my bright ones disappear, Drawn up like morning dews — SONGS OF SEVEN. 85 To bear, to nurse, to rear, To watch, and then to lose: This have I done when God drew near Among his own to choose. To hear, to heed, to wed, And with thy lord depart In tears that he, as soon as shed, Will Jet no longer smart. — To hear, to heed, to wed, This while thou didst I smiled, For now it was not God who said, " Mother, give me thy child." O fond, fool, and blind, To God I gave with tears; But when a man like grace would find, My soul put by her fears — O fond, O fool, and blind, God guards in happier spheres; That man will guard where he did bind Is hope for unknown years. To hear, to heed, to wed, Fair lot that maidens choose, Thy mother's tenderest words are said, Thy face no more she views ; Thy mother's lot, my dear, She doth in nought accuse: Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear, To love — and then to lose. 8st French. Revolution is alluded to in the preceding linev 114 POEMS OF SCHILLER. To hover as the thunder's neighbor, The very firmament explore; To be a voice as from above, Like yonder stars so bright and clear, That praise their Maker as they move And usher in the circling year. Tun'd be its metal mouth alone To things eternal and suMime, And, as the swift-wing'd hours speed on, May it record the flight of time 2 Its tongue to Fate it well may lend ; Heartless itself, and feeling nought, May with i s warning notes attend On human lif_, with change so fraught. And, as the strains die on the ear That it peals forth with tuneful migh , So let it teach that nought lasts here, That all things earthly take their fight ! Now then, with the rope so strong, From the vault the Boll upweigh, That it gains the re hSzos of song, And the heav'niy light of day 2 All hands nimbly ply! Now it mounl : on high! To this city Joy reveals, — Peace be the first strain it peals J HERO AND LEANDER. 115 HEKO AND LEANDER Seest thou yonder castles grey, Glitt'ring in the sun's bright ray, That arise on either side, Where the Hellespont impels Through the rocky Dardanelles Ceaselessly his angry tide? Hear'st thou yonder billows roar, As against the cliffs they break? Asia they from Europe tore — Love alone they ne'er could shake. Hero and Leander's hearts With his fierce but pleasing smarts Cupid's might immortal mov'd, Hero rivall'd Hebe's grace, While Leander, in the chase, O'er the mountains boldly rov'd. But, ere long, parental wrath Sever'd the united pair, And the fruit by love brought forth Hung in mournful peril there. See, on Sestos' rocky tower 'Gainst whose base with ceaseless power Hellespont's wild waters foam, Sits the maid, in sorrow lost, Looking tow'rd Abydos' coast, Where the lov'd one has his home. Ah, to that far-distant strand Bridge there was not to convey, — 116 POEMS OF SCHILLER. Not a bark was near at hand, Yet true love soon found the way. In the labyrinthine maze Love a certain clue can raise, E'en the foolish makes he wise, — Makes the savage monster bow, — To the adamantine plough Yokes the steers with flaming eyes; Styx, whose waters nine-times flow, Cannot bar his daring course ; For from Pluto's house of woe Orpheus' bride he tore by force. Even through the boiling tide He Leander's mind supplied With deep longing's glowing spark When grew pale the glitt'ring day, Took the swimmer bold his way O'er th: Pontine ocean dark ; Cleft the weves with mighty power, Striving for yon strand so dear, Where upi ^s'd on lofty tower, Shone the torch's radiance clear. Circled in her loving arms, Soon the glad Leander warms From the weary journey past, And receives the godlike prize That in her embraces lies As his bright reward at last; Till Aurora once again Wakes him from his vision blest, HER AND LEANDER. 117 He must tempt the briny main Driven from love's gentle breast. Thirty suns had sped like this In the joys of stolen bliss Swiftly o'er the happy pair, As a bridal night of love, Worthy e'en the Gods above, Ever young and ever fair, Rapture true he ne'er can know, Who with daring hand has never Pluck'd the Heavenly fruits that grow On the brink of Hell's dark river. Hesper and Aurora bright Each, in turns, put forth their light, Yet the happy ones saw net How the leaves (began to fall. — How from ITorthern icy hciK Writer fierce approach '£ thj spot. Joyf:!ly thej- zr,v each cbj- J tore csad more it; :;n£r. reduce; For 'lie ?^ight's no\ /-lengthened sway, In th:ir madness M- :U f.iey Zeus. Mcely-balanced, da; and night, Held fie scales of Heaven aright, — From the tower, with pensive eye, Gaz'd the gentle maid alone On the coursers of the sun, Hastening downwards through the sky. Still and calm the ocean lay, Like a pure, unsullied glass,— 118 POEMS OF SCHILLER. Not a zephyr sought, in play, O'er the crystal flood to pass. Dolphin-shoals, in joyous motion Through the clear and silv'ry ocean, Wanton'd its cool waves among; And, in darkly -vestured train, From the bosom of the main Tethys' varied band upsprung. "None but they e'er saw reveal'd Those fond lovers' blest delight: But their silent lips were seal'd Evermore by Hecate's might. Gladly on the smiling sea Gaz'd she, and caressingly To the element exclaim'd : "Lovely God, canst thou deceive ? Ne'er the traitor I'll believe, Who thee false and faithless nam'cL Treach'rous is the human race, Cruel is my father's heart; Thou art mild and full of grace, And art mov'd by love's soft smart. " In these desert walls of stone I had mourn'd in grief alone, Pin'd in sorrow without end, If thou, on thy crested ridge, Aided by no bark, no bridge, Hadst not hither borne my friend. Dreaded though thy depths may be, Fierce the fury of thy wave, HERO AKD LEAN DEB. \\% Love can ever soften thee, Thou art vanquish'd by the brave. "For the mighty dart of Love E'en the Ocean God could move, When the golden ram of yore, Helle, cloth'd in beauty bright, With bier brother in her flight, Over thy deep billows bore — Sudden, vanquish'd by her charms. Starting from the whirlpool black,, Thou didst bear her in thine arms To thy realms from off his back. " As a Goddess, — happy lot ! — In the deep and wat'ry grot, Evermore she now resides ; Hapless lovers' cares dispels, All thy raging passions quells, Into port the sailor guides. Beauteous Helle, Goddess fair, Blessed one, to thee I pray: Safely trusting to thy care, Hither bring my love to-day! n Dark the waters soon became, And she wav'd the torch's flame From the lofty balcony, That the wanderer belov'd, As across the deep he rov'd, Might the trusty signal see. Howling blast approach'd from far, Gloomier still the billows curl'd 120 POEMS OF SCHILLER Quench'd was ev'ry glimm'ring star, And the storm its might unfurl'd. Over Pontus' boundless plain Night now spreads, while heavy rain Pours in torrents from each cloud ; Lightning quivers through the air, While from out its rocky lair Bursts the tempest fierce and loud. In the waters, as they yell; Fearful chasms are expos'd ; Gaping, like the jaws of Hell Are the ocean-depths disclos'd. " Woe, oh, woe ! " she weeping cries " Mighty Zeus, regard my sighs ! Ah, how rash the boon I crav'd I If the Gods gave ear to me, If within the treacherous sea, He the raging storm has brav'd ! Ev'ry bird that loves the tide Homeward swiftly wings its way Ev'ry ship, in tempest tried, Refuge seeks in shelt'ring bay. " Doubtless, ah! the dauntless one ; Has his daring task begun, Urg'd by the great Deity; When departing, he his troth Pledg'd with Love's most sacred oath; Death alone can set him free. He, alas, this very hour, Wrestles with the tempest's gloom; HERO AND LEANDER. 121 And the madden'd billows' power Bears him downwards to their womb. "Pontus false! — thy seeming calm Serv'd suspicion to disarm; Thou wert like a spotless glass; Basely smooth thy waters lay, That they might my love betray Into thy false realms to pass. In thy middle current now, Where no hopes of refuge lie, On the hapless victim thou Let'st thy fearful terrors fly ! " Fiercer grows the tempest's might, Leaping up to mountain-height Swells the sea, — the billows roar 'Gainst the cliffs with fury mad ; E'en the ship with oak beclad Breaks to pieces on the shore. And the wind puts out the blaze That had serv'd to light the tracks Terror round the landing plays, Terror in the waters black. Yenus she implores to chain The tempestuous hurricane, And the angry waves to bind ; And a steer with golden horn Vows the maid, by anguish torn, As a victim to each wind. Ev'ry Goddess of the deep, Ev'ry heavenly Deity, V22 POEMS OF S CHILLER. She implores to lull to sleep With smooth oil the raging sea. " To my mournful cry attend ! Blest Leucothea, ascend Hither from thy sea-green bower! Thou who of ttimes com'st to save When the fury of the wave Threats the sailor to devour! O'er him cast thy sacred veil, Which, with its mysterious charm. E'en when floods his life assail, Guards its wearer from all harm! " And the wild winds cease to blow, Brightly through the Heavens now go Eos' coursers, mounting high; Gently in its wonted bed Flows the ocean, smoothly spread, Sweetly smile both sea and sky. Softly now the billows stray O'er the peaceful, rock-bound strand. And, in calm and eddying play, Waft a lifeless corpse to land. Ah, 'tis he who, even now, Keeps in death his solemn vow! In an instant knows she him; Yet she utters not a sigh, — Not a tear escapes her eye, Cold and rigid is each limb. Sadly looks she on the light, Sadly. on the desert deep; HERO AND LEANDER. 123 And unearthly flushes bright O'er her pallid features creep. " Dreaded Gods, I own your force! Fearfully, without remorse, Ye have urg'd your rights divine. Though my race is early run, Yet I happiness have known, And a blissful lot was mine. Living, in thy temple, I As a priestess deck'd my brow 9 And a joyful victim die, Mighty Yenus, for thee now! " And, with garments fluttering round, From the tower, with madden'd bound, Plung'd she in the distant wave. High the God through his domain Bears those hallow'd corpses twain,— He himself becomes their grave; And, rejoicing in his prize, Gladly on his way he goes,— From his urn, that never dries, Pours his stream, that ceaseless flows. ENOCH ARDEN. Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm; And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands; Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf In cluster; then a moulder'd church; and higher A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill; And high in heaven behind it a gray down With Danish barrows; and a hazelwood, By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes Green in a cuplike hollow of the down. Here on this beach a hundred years ago, Three children of three houses, Annie Lee, The prettiest little damsel in the port, And Philip Kay the miller's only son, And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd Among the waste and lumber of the shore, Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets, Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn ; And built their castles of dissolving sand To watch them overflow'd, or following up And flying the w 7 hite breaker, daily left The little footprint daily wash'd away. A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff: In this the children play'd at keeping house. Enoch was host one day, Philip the next, While Annie still was mistress; but at times Enoch would hold possession for a week: " This is my house and this my little wife." *' Mine too" said Philip 4 ' turn and turn about :** When, if they quarrel'd, Enoch stronger-made Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyes All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears, 126 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. Shriek out " I hate you, Enoch," and at this The little wife would weep for company, And pray them not to quarrel for her sake, And say she would be little wife to both. But when the dawn of rosy childhood past, And the new warmth of life's ascending sun Was felt by either, either fixt his heart On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love, But Philip loved in silence; and the girl Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him; But she loved Enoch; tho' she knew it not, And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set A purpose evermore before his eyes, To hoard all savings to the uttermost, To purchase his own boat, and make a home For Annie: and so prosper'd that at last A luckier or a bolder fisherman, A carefuller in peril, did not breathe For leagues along that breaker-beaten coast Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a year , On board a merchantman, and made> himself Full sailor; and he thrice had pluck'd a life From the dread sweep of the down-streaming seas« And all men look'd upon him favorably: And ere he touch'd his one-and-twentieth May He purchased his own boat, and made a home For Annie, neat and nestlike, halfway up The narrow street that clamber'd toward the milL Then, on a golden autumn e^sentide, The younger people making holiday, With bag and sack and basket, great and small, Went nutting to the hazels. Philip stay'd (His father lying sick and needing him) An hour behind; but as he climb'd the hill, Just where the prone edge of the wood began To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair, Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand, His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face I ENOCH ARDEK 12? All-kindled by a still and sacred fire, That burn'd as on an altar. Philip look'd, And in their eyes and faces read his doom; Then, as their faces drew together, groan'd, And slipt aside, and like a wounded life Crept down into the hollows of the wood-, There, while the rest were loud in merrymaking Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and past Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart. So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells, And merrily ran the years, seven happy years, Seven happy years of health and competence, And mutual love and honorable toil; With children; first a daughter. In him woke, With his first babe's first cry, the noble wish To save all earnings to the uttermost, And give his child a better bringing-up Than his had been, or hers; a wish renew'd, When two years after came a boy to be The rosy idol of her solitudes, While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas, Or often journeying landward; for in truth Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean-spoil In ocean-smelling osier, and his face, Rough-redden'd with a thousand winter gales, Not only to the market-cross were known, But in the leafy lanes behind the down, Far as the portal warding lion-whelp, And peacock-yew tree of the lonely Hall, Whose Friday fare was Enoch's ministering. Then came a change, as all things human change* Ten miles to northward of the narrow port Open'd a larger haven : thither used Enoch at times to go by land or sea; And once when there, and clambering on a mast In harbor, by mischance he slipt and fell: A limb was broken when they lifted him ; And while he lay recovering there, his wife 128 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. Bore him another son, a sickly one: Another hand crept too across his trade Taking her bread and theirs; and on him fell, Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man, Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom. He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the night, To see his children leading evermore Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth, And her, he loved, a beggar: then he pray'd " Save them from this, whatever comes to me." And while he pray'd, the master of that ship Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance, Came, for he knew the man and valued him, Reporting of his vessel China-bound, And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he go? There yet were many weeks before she sail'd, Sail'd from this port. Would Enoch have the place? And Enoch all at once assented to it, Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer. So now that shadow of mischance appear'd No graver than as when some little cloud Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, And isles a light in the offing: yet the wife — When he was gone — the children — what to do? Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his plans; To sell the boat— and yet he loved her well — How many a rough sea had he weather'd in her! ■ He knew her, as a horseman knows his horse — And yet to sell her — then with what she brought Buy goods and stores — set Annie forth in trade With all that seamen needed or their wives — So might she keep the house while he was gone. Should he not trade himself out yonder? go This vo}^age more than once? yea twice or thrice— As oft as needed — last, returning rich, Become the master of a larger craft, With fuller profits lead an easier life, Have all his pretty young ones educated, And pass his days in peace among his own. ENOCH ARDEK 129 Thus Enoch in his heart determined all : Then moving homeward came on Annie pale, Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-born. Forward she started with a happy cry, Aud laid the feeble infant in his arms; Whom Enoch took, and handled all his limbs, Appraised his weight and fondled fatherlike, But had no heart to break his purposes To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke Then first since Enoch's golden ring had girt Her finger, Annie fought against his will: Yet not with brawling opposition she, But manifold entreaties, many a tear, Many a sad kiss by day by night renew'd (Sure that all evil would come out of it) Besought him, supplicating, if he cared For her or his dear children, not to go. He not for his own self caring but her, Her and her children, let her plead in vain; So grieving held his will, and bore it thro'. For Enoch parted with his old sea-friend, Bought Annie goods and. stores, and set his hand To fit their little streetward sitting-room With shelf and corner for the goods and stores. So all day long till Enoch's last at home, Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe, Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to hear Her own death-scaffold raising, shrill'd and rang, Till this was ended, and his careful hand, — The space was narrow, — having order'd all Almost as neat and close as Nature packs Her blossom or her seedling, paused ; and he, Who needs would work for Annie to the last, Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn. And Enoch faced this morning of farewell Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's fears, Save, as his Annie's, were a laughter to him. 130 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. Yet, E'loch as a brave God-fearing man Bnv'd himself down, and in that mystery Where God-in-man is one with man-in-God, P'ray'd for a blessing on his wife and babes Whatever came to him: and 1hen he said " Annie, this voyage by the grace of God Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me, For I'll be back, my girl, before you know it. 9 * Then lightly rocking baby's cradle " and he, This pretty", puny, weakly little one, — Nay — for I love him all the better for it — God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees And I will tell him tales of foreign parts, And make him merry, when I come home again. Come Annie, come, cheer up before I go." Him running on thus hopefully she heard, And almost hoped herself; but when he turn'd The current of his talk to graver things In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing On providence and trust in Heaven, she heard, Heard and not heard him ; as the village girl, Who sets her pitcher underneath the spring, Musing on him that used to fill it for her, Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow. At length she spoke " O Enoch, you are wise; And yet for all your wisdom well know I That I shall look upon your face no more." "Well then," said Enoch, "I shall look on yours A nnie, the ship I sail in passes here (He named the day) get you a seaman's glass, Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears." But when the last of those last moments came.. "Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted, Look to the babes, and till I come again, Keep everything shipshape, for I must go. ENOCH ARDEK 131 And fear no more for me : or if you fear Cast all your cares on God ; that anchor holds, Is He not yonder in those uttermost Parts of the morning? if I flee to these Can I go from Him ? and the sea is His, The sea is His: He made it." Enoch rose, Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife, And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones; But for the third, the sickly one, who slept After a night of feverous wakefulness, When Annie would have raised him Enoch said " Wake him not ; let him sleep ; how should the child Remember this?" and kiss'd him in his cot. But Annie from her baby's forehead dipt A tiny curl, and gave it: this he kept Thro' all his future; but now hastily caught His bundle, waved his hand, and went his way. She when the day, that Enoch mention'd, came, Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain : perhaps She could not fix the glass to suit her eye; Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous; She saw him not: and while he stood on deck Waving, the moment and the vessel past. Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing sail She watch'd it, and departed weeping for him; Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as his grave, Set her sad will no less to chime with his, But throve not in her trade, not being bred To barter, nor compensating the want By shrewdness, neither capable of lies, Nor asking overmuch and taking less, And still foreboding " what would Enoch say?" For more than once, in days of difficulty And pressure, had she sold her wares for less Than what she gave in buying what she sold: She fail'd and sadden'd knowing it; and thus, 132 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. Expectant of that news which never came, Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance, And lived a life of silent melancholy. Now the third child was sickly-born and grew Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it With all a mother's care: nevertheless, Whether her business often call'd her from it, Or thro' the want of what it needed most, Or means to pay the voice who best could tell What most it needed — howsoe'er it was, After a lingering, — ere she was aware, — Like the caged bird escaping suddenly, The little innocent soul flitted away. In that same week when Annie buried it, Philip's true heart, which hunger' d for her peace (Since Enoch left he had not look'd upon her), Smote. him, as having kept aloof so long. 44 Surely" said Philip " 1 may see her now, May be some little comfort;" therefore went, Past thro' the solitary room in front, Paused for a moment at an inner door, Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, Enter'd; but Annie, seated with her grief, Fresh from the burial of her little one, Cared not to look on any human face, But turn'd her own toward the wall and wept. Then Philip standing up said falteringly "Annie, I came to ask a favor of you." He spoke ; the passion in her moan'd reply " Favor from one so sad and so forlorn As I am!" half abash'd him; yet unask'd, His bashfulness and tenderness at war, He set himself beside her, saying to her; "I came to speak to you of what he wish'd, Enoch, your husband: I have ever said You chose the best among us — a strong man: For where he fixt his heart he set his hand ENOCH ABDEK 133 To do the thing he will'd, and bore it thro'. And wherefore did he go this weary way, And leave you lonely? not to see the world — For pleasure? — nay, but for the wherewithal To give his babes a better bringing-up Than his had been, or yours: that was his wish. And if he come again, vext will he be To find the precious morning hours were lost. And it would vex him even in his grave, If he could know his babes were running wild Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, now — Have we not known each other all our lives? I do beseech you by the love you bear Him and his children not to say me nay — For, if you will, when Enoch comes again Why then he shall repay me — if you will, Annie — for I am rich and well-to-do. Now let me put the boy and girl to school: This is the favor that 1 came to ask." Then Annie with her brows against the wall Answer'd " I cannot look you in the face; I seem so foolish and so broken down. "When you came in my sorrow broke me down; And now I think your kindness breaks me down ; But Enoch lives; that is borne in on me: He will repay you: money can be repaid; Not kindness such as yours." And Philip ask'd " Then you will let me, Annie?" There she turn'd She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes upon him, And dwelt a moment on his kindly face, Then calling down a blessing on his head Caught at his hand, and wrung it passionately, And past into the little garth beyond. So lifted up in spirit he moved away. Then Philip put the boy and girl to school, And bought them needful books, and everyway, 134 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. Like one who does his duty by his own, Made himself theirs; and tho' for Annie's sake, Fearing the lazy gossip of the port, He oft denied his heart his dearest wish, And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit, The late and early roses from his wall, Or conies from the down, and now and then, With some pretext of fineness in the meal To save the offense of charitable, flour From his tall mill that whistled on the waste. But Philip did not fathom Annie's mind : Scarce could the woman when he came upon her ? Out of full heart and boundless gratitude Light on a broken word to thank him with. But Philip was her children's all-in-all ; From distant corners of the street they ran To greet his hearty welcome heartily; Lords of his house and of his mill were they; Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with him And call'd him Father Philip. Philip gain'd As Enoch lost; for Enoch seem'd to them Uncertain as a vision or a dream, Faint as a figure seen in early dawn Down at the far end of an avenue, Going we know not where: and so ten years, Since Enoch left his hearth and native land, Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came. It chanced one evening Annie's children long'd To go with others, nutting to the wood, And Annie would go with them ; then they begg'd For Father Philip (as they call'd him) too: Him, like the working bee in blossom-dust, Blanch'd with his mill, they found ; and saying to him " Come with us Father Philip" he denied ; But when the children pluck'd at him to go, He laugh'd, and yielded readily to their wish, Foi- was not Annie with them? and they went. ENOCH ARDEK 135 But after scaling half the weary down, Just where the prone edge of the wood began To feather toward the hollow, all her force Fail'd her; and sighing "let me rest" she said: So Philip rested with her well-content; While all the younger ones with jubilant cries Broke from their elders, and tumultuously Down thro' the whitening hazels made a plunge To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or broke The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away Their tawny clusters, crying to each other And calling, here and there, about the wood. But Philip sitting at her side forgot Her presence, and remember'd one dark hour Here in this wood, when like a w T ounded life He crept into the shadow : at last he said Lifting his honest forehead " Listen, Annie, How merry they are down yonder in the wood." " Tired, Annie?" for she did not speak a word. " Tired?" but her face had fall'n upon her hands; At which, as with a kind of anger in him, " The ship was lost" he said " the ship was lost! No more of that ! why should you kill yourself And make them orphans quite?" And Annie said Ci I thought not of it: but — I know not why — Their voices made me feel so solitary." Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke. " Annie, there is a thing upon my mind, And it has been upon my mind so long, That tho' I know not when it first came there, I know that it will out at last. O Annie, It is beyond all hope, against all chance, 'That he who left you ten long years ago Should still be living; well then — let me speak: I grieve to see you poor and wanting help: I cannot help you as I wish to do Unless — they say that women are so quick — Perhaps you know what I would have you know—- 136 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. I wish you for my wife. I fain would prove A father to your children: I do think They love roe as a father: I am sure That I love them as if they were mine own; And I believe, if you w T ere fast my wife, That after all these sad uncertain years, We might be still as happy as God grants To any of His creatures. Think upon it: For 1 am well-to-do — no kin, no care, No burthen, save my care for you and yours: And we have known each other all our lives, And I have loved you longer than you know." Then answer'd Annie ; tenderly she spoke : " You have been as God's good angel in our house, God bless you for it, God reward you for it, Philip, with something happier than myself. Can one love twice? can you be ever loved As Enoch was? what is it that you ask?" "I am content" he answer'd " to be loved A little after Enoch." " O " she cried Scared as it were " dear Philip, wait a while: If Enoch comes — but Enoch will not come — Yet wait a year, a year is not so long: Surely I shall be wiser in a year: wait a little!" Philip sadly said " Annie, as I have waited all my life 1 well may wait a little." "Nay" she cried " I am bound: you have my promise — in a year: Will you not bide your year as I bide mine?" And Philip answer'd "I will bide my year." Hf;re both were mute, till Philip glancing up Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day Pas?, from the Danish barrow overhead; Then fearing night and chill for Annie rose, And sent his voice beneath him thro' the wood. Up came the children laden with their spoil; Then all descended to the port, and there At Annie's door he paused and gave his hand, ENOCH ABDEN. 137 Saying gently " Annie, when I spoke to you, That was your Lour of weakness. I was wrong. ^ I am always bound to you, but you are free." Then Annie weeping answer'd "I am bound." She spoke ; and in one moment as it were, While yet she went about her household ways, Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest words, That he had loved her longer than she knew, That autumn into autumn flash'd again, And there he stood once more before her face, Claiming her promise. " Is it a year?" she ask'd. " Yes, if the nuts" he said " be ripe again: Come out and see. " But she — she put him off — So much to look to — such a change— a month — Give her a month — she knew that she was bound — A month — no more. Then Philip with his eyes Full of that lifelong hunger, and his voice Shaking a little like a drunkard's hand, "Take your own time, Annie, take your own time." And Annie could have wept for pity of him; And yet she held him on delayingly With many a scarce-believable excuse, Trying his truth and his long-sufferance, Till half-another year had slipt away. By this the lazy gossips of the port, Abhorrent of a calculation crost, Began to chafe as at a personal wrong. Some thought that Philip did but trifle with her; Some that she but held off to draw him on ; And others laugh'd at her and Philip too, As simple folk that knew not their own minds; And one, in whom all evil fancies clung Like serpent eggs together, laughingly Would hint' at worse in either. Her own son Was silent, tho' he often look'd his wish; But evermore the daughter prest upon her To wed the man so dear to all of them And lift the household out of poverty; 138 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. And Philip's rosy face contracting grew Careworn and wan; and all these things fell on her Sharp as reproach. At last one night it chanced That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly Pray'd for a sign " my Enoch is he gone?" Then compass'd round by the blind wall of night Brook'd not the expectant terror of her heart, Started from bed, and struck herself a light, Then desperately seized the holy Book, Suddenly set it wide to find a sign, Suddenly put her finger on the text, " Under a palmtree." That was nothing to her: No meaning there: she closed the book and slept: When lo! her Enoch sitting on a height, Under a palmtree, over him the Sun: 4 'He is gone" she thought "he is happy, he is singing Hosanna in the highest: yonder shines The Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms Whereof the happy people strowing cried 'Hosanna in the highest!' " Here she woke, Resolved, sent for him and said wildly to him " There is no reason why we should not wed." ' ' Then for God's sake, " he answer'd, ' ' both our sakes, So you will wed me, let it be at once." So these were wed and merrily rang the bells, _ Merrily rang the bells and they were wed. But never merrily beat Annie's heart. A footstep seem'd to fall beside her path, She knew not whence ; a whisper on her ear, She knew not what; nor loved she to be left Alone at home, nor ventured out alone. What ail'd her then, that ere she enter'd, often Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch, Fearing to enter: Philip thought he knew: Such doubts and fears were common to her state, Being with child: but when her child was born, Then her new child was as herself renevvM, ENOCH ARDEN. , 139 Then the new mother came about her heart, Then her good Philip was her all-in-all, And that mysterious instinct wholly died. And where was Enoch? prosperously sail'd The ship " Good Fortune," tho' at setting forth The Biscay, roughly ridging eastward, shook And almost overwhelm'd her, yet unvext She slipt across the summer of the w T orld, Then after a long tumble about the Cape And frequent interchange of foul and fair, She passing thro' the summer world again. The breath of heaven came continually And sent her sweetly by the golden isles, Till silent in her oriental haven. There Enoch traded for himself, and bought Quaint monsters for the market of those times, A gilded dragon, also, for the babes. Less lucky her home-voyage: at first indeed Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by day, Scarce-rocking, her full-busted figure-head Stared o'er the ripple feathering from her bows: Then follow'd calms, and then winds variable, Then baffling, a long course of them; and last Storm, such as drove her under moonless heavens Till hard upon the cry of " breakers" came The crash of ruin, and the loss of all But Enoch and two others. Half the night, Buoy'd upon floating tackle and broken spars, These drifted, stranding on an isle at morn Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea. No want was there of human sustenance, Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing roots; Nor save for pity was it hard to take The helpless life so wild that it was tame. There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge They built, and thatch'd with leaves of palm, a hut, 140 THE ELZEVIR L1BRAB r. Half hut, half native cavern. So the three, Set in this Eden of all plenteousness, Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content. For one, the youngest, hardly more than boy, Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and wreck, Lay lingering out a three-years' death-in-life. They could not leave him. After he was gone, The two remaining found a fallen stem; And Enoch's comrade, careless of himself, Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone. In those two deaths he read God's warning " wait." The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns And winding glades high up like ways to Heaven, The slender coco's drooping crown of plumes, The lightning flash of insect and of bird, The luster of the long convolvuluses That coil'd around the stately stems, and ran Ev'n to the limit of the land, the glows And glories of the broad belt of the world, All these he saw; but what he fain had seen He could not see, the kindly human face, Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl, The league-long roller thundering on the reef, The moving whisper of huge trees that branch'd And blossom'd in the zenith, or the sweep Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave, As down the shore he ranged, or all day long Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail : No sail from day to day, but every day The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts Among the palms and ferns and precipices; The bfaze upon the waters to the east; The blaze upon bis island overhead; The blaze upon the waters to the west; Then the great stars that globed themselves in Heaven, ENOCH ABDEK 141 The hollower -bellowing ocean, and tfgain The scarlet shafts of sunrise — but no sail. There often as he watch'd or seem'd to watch, So still, the golden lizard on him paused, A phantom made of many phantoms moved Before him haunting him, or he himself Moved haunting people, things and places, known Far in a darker isle beyond the line ; The babes, their babble, Annie, the small house, The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes, The peacock-yewtree and the lonely hall, The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill November dawns and dewy-glooming downs, The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves, And the low moan of leaden-color'd seas. Once likewise, in the ringing of his ears, Tho' faintly, merrily — far and far away — He heard the pealing of his parish bells; Then, tho' he knew not wherefore, started up Shuddering, and when the beauteous hateful isle Return'd upon him, had not his poor heart Spoken with That, which being everywhere Lets none, who speaks with Him, seem all alone, Surely the man had died of solitude. Thus over Enoch's early-silvering head The sunny and rainy seasons came and went Year after year. His hopes to see his own, And pace the sacred old familiar fields, Not yet had perish'd,*when his lonely doom Came suddenly to an end. Another ship (She wanted water) blown by baffling winds, Like the Good Fortune, from her destined course, Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where she lay: For since the mate had seen at early dawn Across a break on the mist-wreathen isle The silent water slipping from the hills, They sent a crew that landing burst away 142 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. In search of stream or fount, and fill'd the shores With clamor. Downward from his mountain gorge Stept the long-hair'd long-bearded solitary, BroWn, looking hardly human, strangely clad, Muttering and mumbling, idiotlike it seem'd, With inarticulate rage, and making signs They knew not what: and yet he led the way To where the rivulets of sweet water ran ; And ever as he mingled with the crew, And heard them talking, his long bounden tongue Was loosen'd, till he made them understand; Whom, when their casks were fill'd they took aboard : And there the tale he utter'd brokenly, Scarce credited at first but more and more, Amazed and melted all who listen'd to it: And clothes they gave him and free passage home; But oft he work'd among the rest and shook His isolation from him. None of these Came from his county, or could answer him, If question'd, aught of what he cared to know. And dull the voyage was with long delays, The vessel scarce sea-worthy; but evermore His fancy fled before the lazy wind Returning, till beneath a clouded moon He like a lover down thro' all his blood Drew in the dewy meadowy morning-breath Of England, blown across her ghostly wall: And that same morning officers and men Levied a kindly tax upon themselves. Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it: Then moving up the coast they landed him, Ev'n ki that harbor whence he saiFd before. There Enoch spoke no word to anyone, But homeward — home — what home? had he a home? His home, he walk'd. Bright w T as .that afternoon, Sunny but chill; till drawn thro' either chasm, Where either haven open'd on the deeps, Roll'd a sea-haze and wlielm'd the world in gray; Cut off the length of highway on before, ENOCH ARDEN. 143 And left but narrow breadth to left and right Of wilfier'd holt or tilth or pasturage. On the nigh-naked tree the Robin piped Disconsolate, and thro' the dripping haze The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it down: Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom; Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted light Flared on him, and he came upon the place. Then down the long street having slowly stolen, His heart foreshadowing all calamity, His eyes upon the stones, he reach'd the home Where Annie lived and loved him, and his babes In those far-off seven happy j^ears were born; But finding neither light nor murmur there (A bill of sale gleam'd thro' the drizzle) crept Still downward thinking " dead or dead to me!" Down to the pool and narrow wharf he went, Seeking a tavern which of old he knew, A front of timber-crost antiquity, So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old, He thought it must have gone; but he was gone Who kept it; and his widow, Miriam Lane, With daily-dwindling profits held the house; A haunt of brawling seamen once, but now Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering men. There Enoch rested silent many days. But Miriam Lane was good and garrulous, Nor let him be, but often bieaking in, Told him, with other annals of the port, JSTot knowing — Enoch was so brown, so bow'd, So broken — all the story of his house. His baby's death, her growing poverty, How Philip put her little ones to school, And kept them in it, his long wooing her, Her slow consent, and marriage, and the birth Of Philip's child: and o'er his countenance "No shadow past, nor motion: anyone, 144 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. Regarding, well liad deem'd he felt the tale Less than the teller: only when she closed % "Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost" He, shaking his gray head pathetically, Repeated muttering "cast away and lost;" Again in deeper inward whispers "lost!" But Enoch yearn'd to see her face again; " If I might look on her sweet face again And know that she is happy.". So the thought Haunted and harass'd him, and drove him forth;, At evening when the dull November day Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. There he sat down gazing on all below; There did a thousand memories roll upon him, Unspeakable for sadness. By and by The ruddy square of comfortable light, Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house, Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures The bird of passage, till he madly strikes Against it, and beats out his weary life. For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street, The latest house to landward; but behind, With one small gate that open'd on the waste, Flourish'd a little garden square and wall'd: And in it throve an ancient evergreen, A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk Of shingle, and a walk divided it: But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and stole Up by the wall, behind the yew ; and thence That which he better might have shunn'd, if griefs Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. For cups and silver on the burnish'd board Sparkled and shone; so genial was the hearth: And on the right hand of the hearth he saw Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees; And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, ENOCH ARDEK 145 A later but a loftier Annie Lee, Fair-hair'd and tall, and from her lifted hand Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring To tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy arms, Caught at and ever miss'd it, and they laugh'd: And on the left baud of the hearth he saw The mother glancing often toward her babe, But turning now and then to speak with him, Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong, And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled. Now when the dead man come to life beheld His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee, And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, And his own children tall and beautiful, And him, that other, reigning in his place, Lord of his rights and of his children's love, — Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all, Because things seen are mightier than things heard, Stagger'd and shook, holding the branch, and fear'd To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry, Which in one moment, like the blast of doom, Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. He therefore turning softly like a thief, Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot And feeling all along the garden-wall, Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found, Crept to the gate, and open'd it, and closed, As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door, Behind him, and came out upon the waste. And there he would have knelt, but that his knees Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd. "Too hard to bear! why did they take me thence? O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou That didst uphold me on my lonely isle, 146 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness A little longer! aid me, give me strength Not to tell her, never to let her know. Help me not to break in upon her peace. My children too! must I not speak to these? They know me not. I should betray myself. Never: no father's kiss for me — the girl So like her mother, and the boy, my son." There speech and thought and nature fail'd a littlQ And he lay tranced; but when he rose and paced Back toward his solitary home again, All down the long and narrow street he went Beating it in upon his weary brain, As tho' it were the burthen of a song, " Not to tell her, never to let her know." He was not all unhappy. His resolve Upbore him, and firm faith, and evermore Prayer from a living source within the will, And beating up thro' all the bitter world, Like fountains of sweet water in the sea, Kept him a living soul. "This miller's wife" He said to Miriam "that you told me of, Has she no fear chat her first husband lives?" "Ay, ay, poor soul" said Miriam, " fear enow! If you could tell her you had seen him dead, "Why, that would be her comfort;" and bethought "After the Lord has call'd me she shall know, I wait His time " and Enoch set himself, Scorning an alms, to work whereby to live. Almost to all things could he turn his hand. Cooper he was and carpenter, and wrought To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or help'd At lading and unlading the tall barks, That brought the stinted commerce of those days; Thus earn'd a scanty living for himself: Yet since he did but labor for himself, Work without hope, there was not life in it Whereby the man could live ; and as the year ENOCH ARDEN. 147 Roll'd itself round again to meet the day When Enoch had return'd, a languor came Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually Weakening the man, till he could do no mort?, But kept the house, his chair, and last his bed. And Enoch bore his weakness cheerfully. For sure no glad lie r does the stranded wreck See thro' the gray skirts of a lifting squall The boat that bears the hope of life approach To save the life despair'd of, than he saw Death dawning on him, and the close of all. For thro* that dawning gleam'd a kindlier hope On Enoch thinking "after I am gone, Then may she learn I loved her to the last." He call'd aloud for Miriam Lane and said "Woman, I have a secret — only swear, Before I tell you — swear upon the book Not to reveal it, till you see me dead." " Dead" clamor'd the good woman " hear him talk! I warrant, man, that we shall bring you round." " Swear" added Enoch sternly " on the book." And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam swore. Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her, "Did you know Enoch Arden of this town?" "Know him?" she said "I knew him far away. Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the street; Held his head high, and cared for no man, he." Slowly and sadly Enoch answer'd her; " His head is low, and no man cares for him. I think I have not three days more to live; I am the man." At which the woman gave A half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry. "You Arden, you! nay, — sure he was a foot Higher than you be." Enoch said again " My God has bow'd me down to what I am; My grief and solitude have broken me; Nevertheless, know you that I am he Who married — but that name has twice been changed— 148 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. I married her who married Philip Ray. Sit, listen." Then he told her of his voyage, His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back, His gazing in on Annie, his resolve, And how he kept it. As the woman heard, Fast flow'd the current of her easy tears, While in her heart she yearn'd incessantly To rush abroad all round the little haven, Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes; But awed and promise-bounden she forbore, Saying only " See your bairns before you go! Eh, let me fetch 'em, Arden," and arose Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung A moment on her words, but then replied. "Woman, disturb me not now at the last, But let me hold my purpose till I die. Sit down again; mark me and understand, While I have power to speak. I charge you now £ When you shall see her, tell her that I died Blessing her, praying for her, loving her; Save for the bar between us, loving her As when she laid her head beside my own. And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw So like her mother, that my latest breath Was spent in blessing her and praying for her. And tell my son that I die blessing him. And say to Philip that I blest him too; He never meant us any thing but good. But if my children care to see me dead, Who hardly knew me living, let them come, I am their father; but she must not come, For my dead face would vex her after-life. And now there is but one of all my blood. Who will embrace me in the world-to-be: This hair is his: she cut it off and gave it, And I have borne it with me all these years, And thought to bear it with me to my grave; But now my mind is changed, for I shall see him, My babe in bliss: wherefore when I am gone, ENOCH ARDEN. 149 Take, give her this, for it may comfort her: It will moreover be a token to her, That I am he." He ceased ; and Miriam Lane Made such a voluble answer promising all, That once again he roll'd his eyes upon her Repeating all he wish'd, and once again She promised. Then the third night after this, While Enoch slumber'd motionless and pale, And Miriam watch'd and dozed at intervals, There came so loud a calling of the sea, That all the houses in the haven rang. He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad Crying with a loud voice " a sail! a sail! 1 am saved;" and so fell back and spoke no mor© t So past the strong heroic soul away. And when they buried him the little port Had seldom seen a costlier funerals GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 1 PART I. On Susquehanna's side, fair Wyoming ! Although the wild-flower on thy ruined wall And roofless homes, a sad remembrance bring Of what thy gentle people did befall ; Yet thou wert once the loveliest land of all That see the Atlantic wave their morn restore. Sweet land ! may I thy lost delights recall And paint thy Gertrude in her bowers of yore, Whose beauty was the love of Pennsylvania's shore ! Delightful Wyoming ! beneath thy skies, The happy shepherd swains had nought to do But feed their flocks on green declivities, Or skim perchance thy lake with light canoe, From morn till evening's sweeter pastime grew, 1 Most of the popular histories of England, as well as of the Ameri- can war, give an authentic account of the desolation of Wyoming, in Pennsylvania, which took place in 1178, by an incursion of the Indians. The Scenery and Incidents of this Poem are connected with that event. The testimonies of historians and travelers con- cur in describing the infant colony as one of the happiest spots of human existence, for the hospitable and innocent manners of the inhabitants, the beauty of the country and the luxuriant fertility of the soil and climate. In an evi] hour, the junction of European with Indian arms, converted this terrestrial paradise into a frightful waste. Mr. Isaac Weld informs us, that the ruins of many of the villages, perforated with balls, and bearing marits of conflagration, were still preserved by the recent inhabitants, when he traveled through America in 1790, 152 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. With timbrel, when beneath the forests brown, Thy lovely maidens would the dance renew ; And aye those sunny mountains half-way down . Would echo flageolet from some romantic town. Then, where of Indian hills the daylight takes His leave, how might you the flamingo see Disporting like a meteor on the lakes — And playful squirrel on his nut-grown tree : And every sound of life was full of glee, From merry mock-bird's song, or hum of men ; While hearkening, fearing nought their revelry, The wild-dear arched his neck from glades, and then Unhunted, sought his woods and wilderness again. And scarce had Wyoming of war or crime Heard, but in transatlantic story rung, For here the exile met from every clime, And spoke in friendship every distant tongue : Men from the blood of warring Europe sprung, Were but divided by the running brook ; And happy where no Rhenish trumpet sung, On plains no sieging mine's volcano shook, The blue-eyed German ^changed his sword to pruning-hook. Nor far some Andalusian saraband Would sound to many a native roundelay — But who is he that yet a dearer land Remembers over hills and far away ? Green Albin I 1 what though he no more survey Thy ships at anchor on the quiet shore. Thy pellochs 2 rolling from the mountain bay, Thy lone sepulchral cairn upon the moor, And distant isles that hear the loud Corbrechtan roar ! :i 1 Scotland 2 The Gaelic appellation for the porpoise. 3 A great whirlpool near the island of Jura. GERTRUDE OF WYOMING, 153 Alas ! poor Caledonia's mountaineer. That want's stern edict e'er, and feudal grief, Had forced him from a home he loved so dear ! Yet found he here a home, and glad relief, And plied the beverage from his own fair sheaf, That fired his Highland blood with miekle glee : And England sent her men, of men the chief, Who taught those sires of Empire yet to be, To plant the tree of life, — to plant fair Freedom'^ tree! Here was not mingled in the city's pomp Of life's extremes the grandeur and the gloom ; Judgment awoke not here her dismal tromp, Nor sealed in blood a fellow-creature's doom, Nor mourned the captive in a living tomb. Gne venerable man, beloved of all, Sufficed, where innocence was yet in bloom, To sway the strife, that seldom might befall : And Albert was their judge in patriarchal hall, How reverend was the look, serenely aged, He bore, this gentle Pennsylvanian sire, "Where all but kindly fervors were assuaged, Undimmed by weakness' shade, or turbid ire ! And though, amidst the calm of thought entire, Some high and haughty features might betray A soul impetuous once, 'twas earthly fire That fled composure's intellectual ray, As Etna's fires grow dim before the rising day. I boast no song in magic wonders rife, But yet, oh, Nature ! is there nought to prize, Familiar in thy bosom scenes of life? And dwells in daylight truth's salubrious skies No form with which the soul may sympathise ?-> Young, innocent, on whose sweet forehead mild The parted ringlet shone in simplest guise, An inmate in the home of Albert smiled, Or blest his noonday walk — she was his only child, 154 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY, The rose of England bloomed on Gertrude's cheek — What though these shades had seen her birth, her sire A Briton's independence taught to seek Far western worlds ; and there his household fire The light of social love did long inspire, And many a halcyon day he lived to see Unbroken but by one misfortune dire, When fate had reft his mutual heart — but she Was gone — and Gertrude climbed a widowed father's knee. A loved bequest, — and I may half impart — To them that feel the strong- paternal tie, How like a new existence to his heart That living flower uprose beneath his eye. Dear as she was from cherub infancy, . From hours when she would round his garden P^y, To time as when the ripening years went by, Her lovely mind could culture well repay, And more engaging grew, from pleasing day to day. I may not paint those thousand infant charms ; (Unconscious fascination, undesigned !) The orison repeated in his arms, For God to bless her sire and all mankind ; The book, the bosom on his knee reclined, Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con, (The playmate ere the teacher of her mind :) All uncompanioned else her heart had gone Till now, in Gertrude's eyes, their ninth blue summer shone. And summer was the tide, and sweet the hour, When sire and daughter saw, with fleet descent, An Indian from his bark approach their bower. Of buskined limb, and swarthy lineament' GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 155 The red wild feathers on his brow were blent, And bracelets bound the arm that helped to light A boy, who seemed, as he beside him went, Of Christian vesture, and complexion bright, Led by his dusky guide, like morning brought by night. Yet pensive seemed the boy for one so young — The dimple from his polished cheek had fled ; When, leaning on his forest-bow unstrung, The Oneida warrior to the planter said, And laid his hand upon the stripling':: head, 4 4 Peace be to thee! my words this belt J approve, The paths of peace my steps have hither led : This little nursling, take him to thy love, And shield the bird unfledged, since gone the parent dove. 44 Christian ! I am the foeman of thy foe; Our wampum league thy brethren did embrace: Upon the Michigan, three moons ago, We launched our pirogues for the bison chase, And with the Hurons planted for a space, With true and faithful hands, the olive-stalk ; But snakes are in the bosoms of their race, And though they held with us a friendly talk, The hollow peace-tree fell beneath their toma- hawk ! 44 It was encamping on the lake's far port, A cry of Areouski* broke our sleep, Where stormed an ambushed foe thy nation's fort, And rapid, rapid whoops came o'er the deep ; But long thy country's war-sign on the steep Appeared through ghastly intervals of light, And deathfully their thunders seemed to sweep, 1 The wampum, offered in token of amity. 2 The Indian God of War. 156 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. Till utter darkness swallowed up the sight, As if a shower of blood had quenehed^the fiery fight! ' 4 It slept — it rose again — on high their tower Sprung upwards like a torch to light the skies, Then down again it rained an ember shower, And louder lamentations heard we rise : As when the evil Manitou that dries The Ohio woods, consumes them in his ire, In vain the desolated panther flies, And howls amidst his wilderness of fire : Alas! too late, we reached and smote those Hurons dire ! 4 ' But as the fox beneath the nobler hound, So died their warriors by our battle-brand ; And from the tree we, with her child, unbound A lonely mother of the Christian land : — Her lord — the captain of the British band — Amidst the slaughter of his soldiers lay. Scarce knew the widow our delivering hand ; Upon her child she sobbed, and swooned away", Or shrieked unto the God to whom the Chris- tians pray. " Our virgins fed her with their kindly bowls Of fever-balm and sweet sagamite : But she was journeying to the land of souls, And lifted up her dying head to pray That we should bid an ancient friend convey Her orphan to his home of England's shore ; — And take, she said, this token far away, To one that will remember us of yore, When he beholds the ring that Waldegrave's Julia wore, "And I, the eagle of my tribe, 1 have rushed 1 The Indians are distinguished both personally and by tribes by the name of particular animals, whose qualities they affect to resemble, either for cunning, strength, swiftness, of other qualities :— as the eagle, the serpent, the .fox, or bear. GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 157 With this lorn dove." — A sage's self-command Had quelled the tears from Albert's heart that gushed ; But yet his cheek — his agitated hand- That showered upon the stranger of the land No common boon, in grief but ill beguiled A soul that was not wont to be unmanned ; "And stay," he cried, "dear pilgrim of the wild, Preserver of my old, my boon companion's child !— " Child of a race whose name my bosom warms, On earth's remotest bounds how welcome here? Whose mother oft, a child, has filled these arms, Young as thyself, and innocently dear, Whose grandsire was my early life's compeer. Ah, happiest home of England's happy clime ! How beautiful e'en now thy scenes appear, As in the noon and sunshine of my prime ! How gone like yesterday these thrice ten years of time ! " And, Julia ! when thou wert like Gertrude now, Can I forget thee, favorite child of yore? Or thought I, in thy father's house, when thou Wert lightest hearted on his festive floor, And first of all at his hospitable door To meet and kiss me at my journey's end? But where was I when Waldegrave was no more? And thou didst pale thy gentle head extend In woes, that e'en the tribe of deserts was thy friend?" He said — and strained unto his heart the boy ; — Far differently, the mute Oneida took His calumet of peace, and cup of joy ; ! As monumental bronze unchanged his look ; 1 Calumet of Peace.— The calumet is the Indian name for the ornamented pipe of f riendship, which they smoke as a pledge of amity. 158 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. A soul that pity touched, but never shook ; Trained from his tree-rocked cradle 1 to his bier The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook Impassive — fearing but the shame of fear — A stoic of the woods — a man without a tear. Yet deem not goodness on the savage stock Of Outalissi's heart disdained to grow ; As lives the oak unwithered on the rock By storms above, and barrenness below ; He scorned his own, who felt another's woe : And ere the wolf-skin on his back he flung, Or laced his moccasins,' 2 in act to go, A song of parting to the boy he sung, Who slept on Albert's couch, nor heard his friendly tongue. 4 1 Sleep, wearied one! and in the dreaming land Shouldst thou to-morrow with thy mother meet, Oh ! tell her spirit, that the white man's hand Hath plucked the thorns of sorrow from thy feet; While I in lonely wilderness shall greet Thy little foot-prints — or by traces know The fountain, where at noon I thought it sweet To feed thee with the quarry of my bow, And poured the lotus-horn, 3 or slew the moun- tain roe. 41 Adieu ! sweet scion of the rising sun ! But should affliction's storms thy blossom mock, Then come again — my own adopted on^ ! And I will graft thee on a noble stock : 1 Tree-rocked cradle. — The^Indian mothers suspend their chil- dren in their cradles from the boughs of trees, and let them be rocked by the wind. 2 Moccasins are a sort of Indian buskin. 3 From a flower shaped like a horn, whichj Chateaubriand presumes to be of the lotus kind, the Indians in their travels through the desert often find a draught of dew purer than any other water. GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 159 The crocodile, the condor of the rock, Shall be the pastime of thy sylvan wars ; And I will teach thee, in the battle's shock, To pay with Huron blood thy father's scars, And gratulate his soul rejoicing in the stars I" So finished he the rhyme (howe'er uncouth) That true to nature's fervid feelings ran ; (And song is but the eloquence of truth :) * Then forth uprose that lone way-faring man ; But dauntless he, nor chart, nor journey's plan In the woods required, whose trained eye was keen As eagle of the wilderness, to scan His path, by mountain, swamp, or deep ravine, Or ken far friendly huts on good savannahs green. Old Albert. saw him from the valley's side — His pirogue launched— his pilgrimage begun— Far, like the red-bird's wing he seemed to glide ; Then dived, and vanished in the woodlands dun. Oft, to that spot by tender memory won, Would Albert climb the promontory's height, If but a dim sail glimmered in the sun ; But never more, to bless his longing sight, Was Outalissi hailed, with bark and plumage bright. 160 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. PART II. A valley from the river shore withdrawn Was Albert's home, two quiet woods between, Whose lofty verdure overlooked his lawn ; And waters to their resting-place serene (A mirror in the depth of flowery shelves ;) 80 sweet a spot of earth, you might (I ween) Have guessed some congregation of the elves, To sport by summer moons, had shaped it for themselves. Yet wanted not the eye far scope to muse, Nor vistas opened by the wandering stream ; Both were at evening Alleghany views, Through ridges burning in her western beam, Lake after lake interminably gleam : And past those settlers' haunts the eye might roam Where earth's unliving silence all would seem ; Save where on rocks the heaver built his dome, Or buffalo remote lowed far from human home. But silent not that adverse eastern path, Which saw Aurora's hills the horizon crown ; There was the river heard, in bed of wrath (A precipice of foam from mountains brown), Like tumults heard from some far distant town; But softening in approach he left his gloom, And murmured pleasantly, and laid him down To kiss those easy curving banks of bloom, That lent the windward air an exquisite perfume. It seemed as if those scenes sweet influence had On Gertrude's soul, and kindness like their own Inspired those eyes affectionate and glad, That seemed to love whate'er they looked upon ; Whether with Hebe's mirth her features shone, Or if a shade more pleasing them o'ercast, GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 161 (As if for heavenly musing meant alone;) Yet so becomingly the expression past. That each succeeding look was lovelier than the last. Nor guess I, was that Pennsylvanian home, With all its picturesque and balmy grace, And fields that were a luxury to roam, Lost on the soul that looked from such a face Enthusiast of the woods ! when years apace Had bound thy lovely waist with woman's zone. The sunrise path, at morn, I see thee trace To hills with high magnolia overgrown, And joy to breath the groves, romantic and alone. The sunrise drew her thoughts to Europe forth, That thus apostrophized its viewless scene-: 4 ' Land of my father's lo ve, my mother's birth ! The home of kindred I have never seen ! We know not other — oceans are between : Yet say! far friendly hearts, from whence we came, Of us does oft remembrance intervene ? My mother sure — my sire a thought may claim ; — But Gertrude is to you an unregarded name. * ' And yet, loved England ! when thy name I trace In many a pilgrim's tale and poet's song, How can I choose but wish for one embrace Of them, the dear unknown, to whom belong My mother's looks, — perhaps her likeness strong? Oh, parent ! with what reverential awe, From features of thine own related throng, An image of thy face my soul could draw ! And see thee once again whom I too shortly saw !" Yet deem not Gertrude sighed for foreign joy; To soothe a father's couch her only care, And keep his reverend head from all annoy : 162 THE ELZEVIR LTBRARY. For this, methinks, her homeward steps repair, Soon as the morning wreath had bound her hair; While yet the wild deer trod in spangling dew, While boatmen carolled to the fresh-blown air, And woods a horizontal shadow threw, And early fox appeared in momentary view. Apart there was a deep untrodden grot, Whero oft the reading hours sweet Gertrude wore ; Tradition had not named its lonely spot ; But here (methinks) might India's sons explore Their fathers' dust, ] or lift, perchance of yore, Their voice to the great Spirit : — rocks sublime To human art a sportive semblance bore, And yellow lichens colored all the clime, Like moonlight battlements, and towers decayed by time. But high in amphitheatre above, His arms the everlasting aloes threw : Breathed but an air of heaven, and all the grove As if with instinct living spirit grew, Rolling its verdant gulfs of every hue ; And now suspended was the pleasing din, Now from a murmur faint it swelled anew, Like the first note of organ heard within Cathedral aisles, — ere yet its symphony begin. It was in this lone valley she would charm The lingering noon, where flowers a couch had strewn ; Her cheek reclining, and her snowy arm On hillock by the palm-tree half o'ergrown : And aye that volume on her lap is thrown, Which every heart of human mould endears ; 1 It is a custom of the Indian tribes to visit the tombs of their ancestors in the cultivated parts of America, who have been buried for upwards of a century. GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 163 With Shakespeare's self she speaks and smiles alone, And no intruding visitation fears, To shame the unconscious laugh, or stop her sweetest tears. And nought within the grove was heard or seen But stock-doves 'plaining through its gloom pro- found, Or winglet of the fairy humming bird, Like atoms of the rainbow fluttering round ; When lo ! there entered to its inmost ground A youth, the stranger of a distant land ; He was, to wit, for eastern mountains bound ; But late the equator suns his cheek had tanned, And California's gales his roving bosom fanned. A steed, whose rein hung loosely o'er his arm, He led dismounted ; ere his leisure pace, Amid the brown leaves, could her ear alarm. Close he had come, and worshipped for a space Those downcast features.— she her lovely face Uplift on one, whose lineaments and frame Were youth and manhood's intermingled grace; Iberian seemed his boot — his robe the same, And well the Spanish plume his lofty looks be' came. For Albert's home he sought — her finger fair Has pointed where the father's mansion stood. Returning from the copse he soon was there • And soon has Gertrude hied from dark green wood, Nor joyless, by the converse, understood Between the man of age and pilgrim young, That gay congeniality of mood,' And early liking from acquaintance sprung ; Full fluently conversed their guest in England's tongue. 164 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. And well could he his pilgrimage of taste Unfold, — and much they loved his fervid strain : While he each fair variety retraced Of climes, and manners, o'er the eastern main. Now happy Switzer's hills, —romantic Spain, — Gay lilied fields of France, — or, more refined, The soft Ausonia's monumental reign ; Nor less each rural image he designed Than all the city's pomp and home of humasj kind. Anon some wilder portraiture he draws ; Of Nature's savage glories he would speak, — The loneliness of earth that overawes, — Where resting by some tomb of old Cacique, The llama-driver on Peruvia's peak, Nor living voice nor motion marks around ; But storks that to the boundless forest shriek, Or wild-cane arch high flung o'er gulf profound, ' That fluctuates when the storms of El Dorado sound Pleased with his guest, the good man still would ply Each earnest question, and his converse court ; But Gertrude, as she eyed him, knew not why A strange and troubling wonder stopt her short. 11 In England thou hast been, — and, by report, An orphan's name," quoth Albert, "may'st have known. Sad tale !— when latest fell our frontier fort,— One innocent — one soldier's child— alone Was spared, and brought to me, who loved him as my own. 1 The bridges over narrow streams in many parts of Spanish America are said to be built of cane, which, however strong to support the passenger, are yet waved in the agitation of the storm, and frequently add to the effect of a mountainous and picturesque scenery. GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 165 ^ Young Henry Waldegrave! three delightful years These very walls his infant sports did see ; But most I loved him when his parting tears Alternately bedewed my child and me : His sorest parting, Gertrude, was from thee ; Nor half its grief his little heart could hold: By kindred he was sent for o'er the sea, They tore him from us when but twelve years old, And scarcely for his loss have I been yet con- soled! 1 ' His face the wanderer hid— but could not hide A tear, a smile, upon his cheek that dwell ; — 4 'And speak! mysterious stranger!" Gertrude cried, "It is ! — it is ! — I knew — I knew him well ! 'Tis Waldegrave s self, of Waldegrave come to tell!" A burst of joy the father's lips declare ; But Gertrude speechless on his bosom fell . At once his open arms embraced the pair, Was never group more blest, in this wide world of care. "And will ye pardon then," replied the youth, 'Your Waldegrave's feigned name, and false attire? I durst not in the neighborhood, in truth, The very fortunes of your house inquire ; Lest one that knew me might some tidings dire Impart, and I my weakness all betray ; For had I lost my Gertrude and my sire, I meant but o'er your tombs to weep a day. Unknown I meant to weep, unknown to pass away. Jt But here ye live,— ye bloom,— in each dear face, The changing hand of time I may not blame, 166 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. For there, it hath but shed more reverend grace, And here of beauty perfected the frame : And well I know your hearts are still the same— They could not change — ye look the very way, As when an orphan first to you I came. And have ye heard of my poor guide, I pray? Nay, wherefore weep ye, friends, on such a joy- ous day?" " And art thou here? or is it but a dream? And wilt thou, Waldegrave, wilt thou, leave us more?"— 4 * No, never! thou that yet dost lovelier seem Than aught on earth— than een thyself of yore — I will not part thee from thy father's shore ; But we shall cherish him with mutual arms, And hand and hand again the path explore, Which every ray of young remembrance warms, While thou shalt be my own, with all thy truth and charms ! n At morn, as if beneath a galaxy Of over-arching groves in blossoms white, Where all was odorous scent and harmony, And gladness to the heart, nerve, ear, and sight ; There, if, oh, gentle Love ! I read aright The utterance that sealed thy sacred bond, 'Twas listening to these accents of delight, She hid upon his breast those eyes, beyond Expression's power to paint, all languishingly fond— kk Flower of my life, so lovely, and so lone! Whom I would rather in this desert meet, Scorning, and scorned by fortunes power, than own Her pomp and splendors lavished at my feet ! Turn not from me thy breath, more exquisite Than odors cast on heaven's own shrine— to please — GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 167 Give me thy love, than luxury more sweet, And more than all the weaith that loads the breeze, When CoromandeFs ships returned from Indian seas." Then would that home admit them— happier far Than grandeur's most magnificent saloon, While, here and there, a solitary star Flushed in the darkening firmament of June ; And silence brought the soul-felt hour, full soon, Ineffable, which I may not portray ; For never did the hymenean moon A paradise of hearts more sacred sway. In all that slept beneath her soft voluptuous ray c 168 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. PART III. O Love ! in such a wilderness as this, Where transport and security entwine, Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss, And here thou art a God indeed divine. Here shall no forms abridge, no hours confine The views, the walks, that boundless joy inspire? Roil on, ye days of raptured influence, shine ! Nor, blind with ecstasy's celestial fire, Shall love behold the spark of earth-born time expire. Three little moons, how short ! amidst the grove And pastoral savannahs they consume ! While she, beside her buskined youth to rove, Delights, in fancifully wild costume. Her lovely brow to shade with Indian plume ; And forth in hunter-seeming vest they fare ; But not to chase the deer in forest gloom ; 'Tis but the breath of heaven— the blessed air— And interchange of hearts unknown, unseen to share. What though the sportive dog oft round them note, Or fawn, or wild bird bursting on the wing ; Yet who, in love's own presence, would devote To death those gentle throats that wake the spring, Or writhing from the brook its victim bring? No !— nor let fear one little warbler rouse ; But, fed by Gertrude's hand, still let them sing, Acquaintance of her path, amidst the boughs, That shade e'en now her love, and witnessed first her vows. Now labyrinths, which but themselves can pierce, Methinks, conduct them to some pleasant ground, GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 169 Where welcome hills shut out the universe, And pines their lawny walk encompass round ; There, if a pause delicious converse found, 'Twas but when o'er each heart the idea stole, (Perchance a while in joy's oblivion drowned) That come what may, while life's glad pulses roll, Indissolubly thus should soul be knit to sou) And in the visions of romantic youth, What years of endless bliss are yet to flow ! But, mortal pleasure; what art thou in truth? The torrent's smoothness, ere it dash below ! And must I change my song? and must I show, Sweet Wyoming! the day when thou wert doomed, Guiltless, to mourn thy loveliest bowers laid low! When where of yesterday a garden bloomed, Death overspread his pall, and blackening ashes gloomed ! Sad was the year by proud oppression driven, When Transatlantic Liberty arose, Not in the sunshine and the smile of heaven, But wrapt in whirlwinds, and begirt with woes, Amidst the strife of fratricidal foes ; Her birth star was the light of burning plains; 1 Her baptism is the weight of blood that flows From kindred hearts — the blood of British veins — And famine tracks her steps, and pestilential pains. Yet, ere the storm of death had raged remote, Or siege unseen in heaven reflects its beams, Who now each dreadful circumstance shall note, 1 Alluding to the miseries that attended the American civil war. 170 TEE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. That fills pale Gertrude's thoughts, and nightly- dreams? Dismal to her the forge of battle gleams Portentous light ! and music's voice is dumb ; Save where the fife its shrill reveille screams, Or midnight streets re-echo to the drum, That speaks of maddening strife, and blood* stained fields to come. It was in truth a momentary pang ; Yet how comprising myriad shapes of woe ! First when in Gertrude's ear the summons rang, A husband to the battle doomed to go ! 4 'Nay meet not thou," she cries, "thy kindred foe! But peaceful let us seek fair England's strand !" 1 ' Ah, Gertrude ! thy beloved heart, I know, Would feel like mine, the stigmatising brand ! Could I forsake the cause of Freedom's holy band ! "But shame — but fight — a recreant's name to prove, To hide in exile ignominious fears ; Say, e'en if this I brooked, — the public love Thy father's bosom to his home endears : And how could I his few remaining years, My Gertrude, sever from so dear a child !" So, day by day, her boding heart he cheers ; * At last that heart to hope is half beguiled, And, pale through tears suppressed, the mourn- ful beauty smiled. Night came, — and in their lighted bower, full- late, The joy of converse had endured — when, hark ! Abrupt and loud a summons shook their gate ; And heedless of the dog's obstreperous bark, A form has rushed amidst them from the dark, And spread his arms,— and fell upon the floor: Of aged strength his limbs retained the mark ; GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 171 But desolate- he looked, and famished poor, As ever shipwrecked wretch lone left on desert shore. Uprisen, each wondering brow is knit and arched : A spirit from the dead they deem him first : To speak he tries; but quivering, pale, and parched, From lips, as by some powerless dream accursed, Emotions unintelligible burst ; And long his filmed eye is red and dim ; At length the pity -proffered cup his thirst Had half assuaged, and nerved his shuddering limb, When Albert's hand he grasped;— but Albert knew not him— " And hast thou then forgot," he cried, forlorn, And eyed the group with half indignant air, " Oh ! hast thou, Christian chief, forgot the morn When I with thee the cup of peace did share? Then stately was this head, and dark this hair That now is white as Appalachian snow; But, if the weight of fifteen years' despair, And age hath bowed me, and the torturing foe, Bring me my boy— and he will his deliverer know ! " It was not long, with eyes and heart of flame, Ere Henry to his loved Oneida flew : "Bless thee, my guide!"— but backward, as he came. The chief his old bewildered head withdrew, And grasped his arm, and looked and looked him through. 'Twas strange — nor could the group a smile control — The long, the doubtful scrutiny to view: — At last delight o'er all his features stole, '• It is— my own," he cried, and clasped him to his soul. 172 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. "Yes! thou recalFst my pride of years, for th&n The bowstring of my spirit was not slack, When, spite of woods, and floods, and ambushed men, I bore thee like the quiver on my back, Fleet as the whirlwind hurries on the rack ; Nor foeman then, nor cougar's 1 crouch I feared, For I was strong as mountain cataract : And dost thou not remember how we cheered, Upon the last hill top, when white men's huts appeared? "Then welcome be my death song, and my death ! Since I have seen thee, and again embraced. " And longer had he spent his toil-worn breath ; But with affectionate and eager haste, Was every arm outstretched around their guest, To welcome and to bless his aged head. Soon was the hospitable banquet placed ; And Gertrude's lovely hands a balsam shed On wounds with fevered joy that more profusely bled. " But this is not a time," — he started up, And smote his breast with woe-denouncing hand, l< This is no time to fill the joyous cup, The Mammoth comes, — the foe,— the Monster Brandt, With all his howling desolating band;— These eyes have seen their blade and burning pine Awake at once, and silence half your land. Red is the cup they drink ; but not with wine : Awake, and watch to-night, or see no morning shine ! 1 Cougar, the American tiger. 2 Imaginary leader of those Mohawks, and other savages, who laid waste this part of Pennsylvania. GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 173 " Scorning to wielcl the hatchet for his bribe, Gainst Brandt himself I went to battle forth: Accursed Brandt ! he left of all my tribe _ Nor man, nor child, nor thing of living birth : No! not the dog, that watched my household hearth, Escaped that night of blood, upon our plains ! All perished ! — I alone am left on earth ! To whom nor relative nor blood remains, No! — not a kindred drop that runs in human veins ! u But go! — and rouse your warriors;— for, if right These old bewildered eyes could guess, by signs Of striped and starred banners, on yon height Of eastern cedars, o'er the creek of pines- Some fort embattled by your country shines : Deep roars the innavigable gulf below Its squared rock, and palisaded lines. Go ! seek the light its warlike beacons show ; Whilst I in ambush wait, for vengeance, and the foe!" Scarce had he uttered— when Heaven's verge extreme Reverberates the bomb's descending star, — And sounds that mingled laugh, —and shout,— and scream, — To freeze the blood, in one discordant jar, Rung to the pealing thunderbolts of war. Whoop after whoop with rack the ear assailed ; As if unearthly fiends had burst their bar ; While rapidly the marksman's shot prevailed :— And aye, as if for death, some lonely trumpet wailed. Then look they to the hills, where fire o'erhung The bandit groups, in one Vesuvian glare ; Or swept, far seen, the tower, whose clock un- rung, 174 THE ELZEVIR LIBRA R Y. Told legible that midnight of despair. She faints, — she falters not,— the heroic fair, — As he the sword and plume in haste arrayed. One short embrace— he clasped his dearest care- But hark! what nearer war-drum shakes the glade? J°y> j°y' Columbia's friends are trampling through the shade ! Then came of every race the mingled swarm, Far rung the groves and gleamed the midnight grass, With flambeau, javelin, and naked arm ; As warriors wheeled their culver ins of brass, Sprung from the woods, a bold athletic mass, Whom virtue fires, and liberty combines : And first the wild Moravian yagers pass. His plumed host the dark Iberian joins — And Scotia's sword beneath the Highland thistle shines. And in, the buskined hunters of the deer, To Albert's home, with shout and cymbal throng : — Roused by their warlike pomp, and mirth, and cheer, Old Outalissi woke his battle song, And, beating with his war-club cadence strong, Tells how his deep-stung indignation smarts, Of them that wrapt his house in flames, erelong, To whet a dagger on their stony hearts, And smile avenged ere yet his eagle spirit parts. Calm, opposite the Christian father rose, Pale on his venerable brow its rays Of martyr light the conflagration throws j One hand upon his lovely child he lays, And one the uncovered crowd to silence sways ; While, though the battle flash is faster driven, — Unawed, with eye unstartled by the blaze, GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 175 He for his bleeding country prays to Heaven,— Prays that the men of blood themselves may be forgiven. Short time is now for gratulating speech: And yet, beloved Gertrude, ere began Thy country's flight, yon distant towers to reach, Looked not on thee the rudest partisan With orow relaxed to love? And murmurs ran, As round and round their willing ranks they drew, From beauty's sight to shield the hostile van. Grateful, on them a placid look she threw, Nor wept, but as she bade her mother's grave adieu ! Past was the flight, and welcome seemed the tower, That like a giant standard-bearer frowned Defiance on the roving Indian power. Beneath, each bold and promontory mound With embrasure embossed, and armor crowned, And arrowy frieze, and wedged ravelin, Wove like a diadem its tracery round The lofty summit of that mountain green ; Here stood secure the group, and eyed a distant scene, — A scene of death ! where fires beneath the sun. And blended arms, and white pavilions glow ; And for the business of destruction done Its requiem the wa-horn seemed to blow : There sad spectatress of her country's woe! The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm, Had laid her cheek, and clasped her hands of snow On Waldegrave's shoulder, half within his arm Enclosed, that felt her heart, and hushed its wild alarm I 176 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. But short that contemplation — sad and short The pause to bid each much-loved scene adieu ! Beneath the very shadow of the fort, Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners flew; Ah ! who could deem that foot of Indian crew Was near?— yet there, with lust of murderous deeds, Gleamed like a basilisk, from woods in view, The ambushed foemaiVs eye — his volley speeds, And Albert— Albert — falls ! the dear old father bleeds ! And tranced in giddy horror Gertrude swooned ; Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone, Say, burst they, borrowed from her father's wound, These drops?— Oh, God! the life-blood is "her own! And faltering, on her Waldegrave's bosom thrown— "Weep not, O Love!" she cries, "to see me bleed — Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone Heaven's peace commiserate ; for scarce I heed These wounds; yet thee to leave is death, is death indeed ! 14 Clasp me a little longer on the brink Of fate ! while I can feel thy dear caress: And when this heart hath ceased to beat — oh ! think, And let it mitigate thy woe's excess, That thou hast been to me all tenderness, And friend to more than human friendship just. Oh ! by that retrospect of happiness, And by the hopes of an immortal trust, God shall assuage thy pangs — when I am laid in dust! GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 177 "Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart, The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move, Where my dear father took thee to his heart, And Gertrude thought it ecstasy to rove With thee, as with an angel, through the grove Of peace, imagining her lot was cast In heaven ; for ours was not like earthly love. And must this parting be our very last? No ! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past. "Half could I bear, methinks to leave this earth, — And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun, If I had lived to smile but on the birth Of one dear pledge;— but shall there then be none. In future times — no gentle little one, To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me? Yet seems it, e'en while life's last pulses run, A sweetness in the cup of death to be, Lord of my bosom's love ! to die beholding thee?\ Hushed Avere his Gertrude's lips ! but still their bland And beautiful expression seemed to melt With love that could not die ! and still his hand She presses to the heart no more that felt. Ah, heart ! where once each fond affection dwelt, And features yet that spoke a soul more fair. Mute, gazing, agnoizing as he knelt, — Of them that stood encircling his despair, He heard some friendly words ; but knew not what they were. For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrives A faithful band. With solemn rites between, Twas sung, how they were lovely in their lives, And in their deaths had not divided been. 178 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. Touched by the music, and the melting scene, Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd:— Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were seen To veil their eyes, as passed each much-loved shroud— While woman's softer soul in woe dissolved aloud. Then mournfully the parting bugle bid Its farewell, o'er the grave of worth and truth; Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldegrave hid His face on earth ;— him watched, in gloomy ruth, His woodland guide but words had none to soothe The grief that knew not consolation's name : Casting his Indian mantle o'er the youth, He watched, beneath its folds, each burst that came Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame ! " And I could weep/'— the Oneida chief His descant wildly thus begun : " But that I may not stain with grief The death song of my father's son, Or bow this head in woe ! For by my wrongs, and by my wrath ! To-morrow Areouski's breath (That fires yon heaven with storms of death), Shall light us to the foe : And we shall share, my Christian boy ! The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy ! 4 * But thee, my flower, whose breath was given By milder genii o'er the deep, The spirits of the white man's heaven Forbid not thee to weep:— Nor will the Christian host, Nor will thy father's spirit grieve, To see thee, on the battles eve, GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 179 Lamenting, take a mournful leave Of her who loved thee most : She was the rainbow to thy sight ! Thy sun— thy heaven— of lost delight! ' ' To-morrow let us do or die ! But when the bolt of death is hurled, Ah ! whither then with thee to fly, Shall Outalissi roam the world? Seek we thy once-loved home? The hand is gone that cropt its flowers: Unheard their clock repeats its hours ! Cold is the hearth within their bowers ! And should we thither roam, Its echoes, and its empty tread, Would sound like voices from the dead ! c ; Or shall we cross yon lnountains blue, Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed? And by my side, in battle true, A thousand warriors drew the shaft? Ah ! there in desolation cold, The desert serpent dwells alone, Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone. And stones themselves to ruin grown. Like me, are death-like old. Then seek we not their camp, —for there - The silence dwells of my despair ! " But hark, thj trump !— to-morrow thou In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears : E'en from the land of shadows now My father's awful ghost appears, Amidst the clouds that round us roll ; He bids my soul for battle thirst — He bids me dry the last— the first — ■ The only tears that ever burst From Outalissi's soul ; Because I may not stain with grief, The death-song of an Indian chief!" MAZEPPA. 'Twas after dread Pultowa's day, When fortune left the royal Swede, Around a slaughter'd army lay, No more to combat and to bleed. The power and glory of the war, Faithless as their vain votaries, men ? Had pass'd to the triumphant Czar, And Moscow's walls were safe again, Until a day more dark and drear, And a more memorable year, Should give to slaughter and to shame A mightier host and haughtier name ; A greater wreck, a deeper fall, A shock to one — a thunderbolt to all. II. Such was the hazard of the die ! The wounded Charles was taught to fly By day and night through field and flood, Stain'd with his own and subjects' blood ; For thousands fell that flight to aid : And not a voice was heard t' upbraid Ambition in his humbled hour, When truth had naught to dread from power,, His horse was slain, and Gieta gave His own — and died the Russians' slave. 182 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. This too sinks after many a league Of well-sustain'd but vain fatigue ; And in the depth of forests, darkling The watch-fires in the distance sparkling — The beacons of surrounding foes — A king must lay his limbs at length. Are these the laurels and repose For which the nations strain tboir strength? They laid him. by a savage tree, In outworn nature's agony ; His wounds were stiff — his limbs were stark-* The heavy hour was chill and dark ; The fever in his blood forbade A transient slumber's fitful aid : And thus it was ; but yet through all, Kinglike the monarch bore his fall. And made, in this extreme of ill, His pangs the vassals of his will: All silent and subdued were they, As once the nations round him lay. in. A band of chiefs ! — alas ! how few, Since but the fleeting of a day Had thinn'd it ; but this wreck was true And chivalrous : upon the clay Each sat him down, all sad and mute, Beside his monarch and his steed, For danger levels man and brute, And all are fellows in their need. Among the rest, Mazeppa made His pillow in an old oak's shade — Himself as rough, and scarce less old, The Ukraine's Hetman, calm and bold; But first, outspent with this long course, The Cossack prince rubbxl down his horse, And made for him a leafy bed. And smooth'd his fetlocks and his mane, And slack'd his girth, and stripp'd his rein, MAZEPPA. 183 And joy'd to see how well he fed ; For until now he had the dread His wearied courser might refuse To browse beneath the midnight dews : But he was hardy as his lord, And little cared for bed and board ; But spirited and docile too, Whate'er was to be done, would do. Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb, All Tartar-like he carried him ; Obey'd his voice, and came to call, And knew him. in the midst of all : Though thousands were around, — and Night 5 Without a star, pursued her flight, — That steed from sunset until dawn His chief would follow like a fawn. IV. This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak, And laid his lance beneath his oak, Felt if his arms in order good The long day's march had well withstood— If still the powder fill'd the pan, And flints unloosen'd kept their lock — His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt, And whether they had chafed his belt — And next the venerable man, From out his haversack and can, Prepared and spread his slender stock ; And to the monarch and his men The whole or portion off er'd then With far less of inquietude Than courtiers at a banquet would. And Charles of this his slender share With smiles partook a moment there, To force of cheer a greater show, And seen above both wounds and woe ; And then he said — " Of all our band, Though firm of heart and strong of hand^ 184 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. In skirmish, march, or forage, none Can less have said or more have done Than thee, Mazeppa ! On the earth So fit a pair had never birth, Since Alexander's days till now, As thy Bucephalus and thou : All Scythia's fame to thine should yield For pricking on o'er flood and field." i Mazeppa answer 'd — ' ' 111 betide The school wherein I learn'd to ride ! " Quoth Charles — "Old Hetman, wherefore so. Since thou hast learn'd the art so well? " Mazeppa said — " 'Twere long to tell: And we have many a league to go, With every now and then a blow, And ten to one at least the foe, Before our steeds may graze at ease. Beyond the swift Borysthenes : And, sire, your limbs have need of rest, And I will be the sentinel Of this your troop." — " But I request," Said Sweden's monarch, ' l thou wilt tell This tale of thine, and I may reap, Perchance, from this the boon of sleep ; For at this moment from my eyes The hope of present slumber flies. " " Well, sire, with such a hope I'll track , My seventy years of memory back : I think 'twas in my twentieth spring, — Ay, 'twas, — when Casimir was king — John Casimir, — I was his page Six summers in my earlier age ; A learned monarch, faith ! was he, And most unlike your majesty : He made no wars, and did not gain New realms to lose them back again ; And (save debates in Warsaw's diet) He reign'd in most unseemly quiet ; Not that he had no cares to vex ; MAZEPPA. 185 He loved the muses and the sex : And sometimes these so fro ward are, They made him wish himself at war ; But soon his wrath being o'er, he took Another mistress, or new book : And then he gave prodigious fetes — All Warsaw gather'd round his ga,tes To gaze upon his splendid court, And dames, and chiefs, of princely port ; He was the Polish Solomon, So sung his poets, all but one, Who, being unpension'd, made a satire, And boasted that he could not natter. It was a court of jousts and mimes, Where every courtier tried at rhymes ; Even I for once produced some verses, And sign'd rny odes 'Despairing Thyrsis.* There was a certain Palatine, A count of far and high descent, Eich as a salt or silver mine : And he was proud, ye may divine, As if from heaven he had been sent : He had such wealth in blood and ore As few could match beneath the throne ; And he would gaze upon his store, And o'er his pedigree would pore, Until by some confusion led, Which almost look'd like want of head, He thought their merits were his own. His wife was not of his opinion ; His junior she by thirty years, Grew daily tired of his dominion ; , And after wishes, hopes, and fears, To virtue a few farewell tears, A restless dream or two, some glances At Warsaw's youth, some songs, and dances, Awaited but the usual chances, Those happy accidents which render The coldest dames so very tender, To deck her Count with titles given, 186 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. 'Tis said, as passports into heaven ; But, strange to say, they rarely boast Of these who have deserved them most. v. "I was a goodly stripling then: At seventy years I so may say, That there were few, or boys or men, Who, in my dawning time of day, Of vassal or of knight's degree. Could vie in vanities with me ; Nor I had strength, youth, gaiety, A port, not like to this ye see, But smooth, as all is rugged now ; For time, and care, and war have plough 'd My very soul from out my brow ; And thus I should be disavow'd By all my kind and kin, could they Compare my day and yesterday ; This change was wrought, too, long ere age Had ta'en my features for his page: With years, ye know, have not declined My strength, my courage, or my mind, Or at this hour I should not be Telling old tales beneath a tree, With starless skies my canopy. But let me on . Theresa's form — Methinks it glides before me now, Between me and yon chestnut's bough, The memory is so quick and warm And yet I find no words to tell The shape of her I loved so well She had the Asiatic eye, Such as our Turkish neighborhood Hath mingled with our Polish blood, Dark as above us is the sky ; But through it stole a tender light, Like the first moonrise of midnight, Large, dark, and swimming in the stream. MAZEPPA. 187 Which seem'd to melt to its own beam ; All love, half languor, and half fire, Like saints that at the stake expire, And lift their raptured looks on high, As though it were a joy to die. A brow like a midsummer lake, Transparent with the sun therein, When waves no murmur dare to make, And heaven beholds her face within. A cheek and lip — but why proceed? I loved her then— I love her still ; And such as I am, love indeed In fierce extremes- in good and iiL But still we love even in our rage And haunted to our very age With the vain shadow of the past, As is Mazeppa to the last. VI. " We met— we gazed — I saw, and sigh'd, She did not speak, and 3 et replied ! There are ten thousand tones and signs We hear and see, but none defines — Involuntary sparks of thought, Which strike from out the heart o'er wrought. And form a strange intelligence, Alike mysterious and intense, Which link the burning chain that binds, Without their will, young hearts and minds : Conveying, as the electric wire, We know not how, the absorbing fire. I saw, and sigh'd — in silence wept, And still reluctant distance kept, Until I was made known to her, And we might then and there confer Without suspicion — then, even then, I long'd, and was resolved to speak • But on my lips they died again, The accents tremulous and weak. 188 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. Until one hour. — There is a game, A frivolous and foolish play, Wherewith we while away the clay ; It is — I have forgot the name — And we to this, it seems, were set, By some strange chance, which I forget, I reck'd not if I won or lost, It was enough for me to be So near to hear, and oh ! to see The being whom I loved the most. I watch'd her as a sentinel, (May ours this dark night watch as well !) Until I saw, and thus it was, That she was pensive, nor perceived Her occupation, nor was grieved Nor glad to lose or gain; but still Play'd on for hours, as if her will Yet bound her to the place, though not That hers might be the winning lot. Then through my brain the thought did pass Even as a flash of lightning there, That there was something in her air Which would not doom me to despair ; And on the thought my words broke forth, All incoherent as they were ; Their eloquence was little worth, But yet she listened — 'tis enough— Who listens once will listen twice ; Her heart, be sure, is not of ice, And one refusal no rebuff. VII. ' ' I loved, and was beloved again — They tell me, sire, you never knew Those gentle frailties ; if 'tis true, I shorten all my joy or pain; To you 'twould seem absurd as vain ; But all men are not born to reign, Or o'er their passions, or as you MAZEPPA. 189 Thus o'er themselves and nations too. I am — or rather was — a prince, A chief of thousands, and could lead Them on where each would foremost bleed ; But could not o'er myself evince The like control. — But to resume: I loved, and was beloved again ; In sooth, it is a happy doom, But yet where happiest ends in pain. We met in secret, and the hour Which led me to that lady's bower Was fiery Expectation's dower. My days and nights were nothing— all Except that hour which doth recall In the long lapse from youth to age No other like itself : I'd give The Ukraine back again to live It o'er once more, and be a page, The happy page, who was the lord Of one soft heart, and his own sword, And had no other gem nor wealth Save nature's gift of youth and health. We met in secret — doubly sweet, Some say, they find it so to meet ; I know not that — I would have given My life but to have called her mine In the full view of earth and heaven ; For I did oft and long repine That we could only meet by stealth. VIII. " For lovers there are many eyes, And such there were on us ; — the devil On such occasions should be civil — The devil ! — I'm loth to do him wrong, It might be some untoward saint, Who would not be at rest too long, But to his pious bile gave vent- But one fair night, some lurking spies 190 THE ELZEMR LIBRARY. Surprised and seized us both. The count was something more than wroth — I was unarm'd ; but if in steel, All cap-a-pie from head to heel, What 'gainst their numbers could I do? Twas near his castle, far away From city or from succor near, And almost on the break of day ; I did not think to see another, My moments seem'd reduced to few ; And with one prayer to Mary Mother, And it may be, a saint or two, As I resign'd me to my fate, They led me to the castle gate : Theresa's doom I never knew. Our lot was henceforth separate. An angry man, ye may opine, Was he, the proud Count Palatine ; And he had reason good to be, But he was most enraged lest such An accident should chance to touch Upon his future pedigree ; Nor less amazed that such a blot His noble 'scutcheon should have got, While he was highest of his line ; Because unto himself he seem'd The first of men, nor less he deem'd In others' eyes, and most in mine. 'Sdeath with a page— perchance a king Had reconciled him to the thing ; But with a stripling of a page — I felt, but cannot paint, his rage. IX. "' Bring forth the horse!' — the horse was brought, In truth, he was a noble steed, A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, Who look'd as though the speed of thought MAZEPPA. 191 Were in his limbs ; but he was wild, Wild as the wild deer, and untaught, With spur and bridle undefiled — 'Twas but a day he had been caught ; And snorting, with erected mane, And struggling fiercely, but in vain, In the full foam of wrath and dread To me the desert-born was led : They bound me on, that menial throng : Upon his back with many a thong ; Then loosed him with a sudden lash — Away ! — away ! — and on we dash : Torrents less rapid and less rash. ' c Away ! — away ! — My breath was gone^- I saw not v/here he hurried on : Twas scarcely yet the break of day, And on he f oam'd — away ! — away ! — The last of human sounds which rose, As I was darted from my foes, Was the wild shout of savage laughter, Which on the wind came roaring after A moment from that rabble rout : With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head, And snapp'd the cord which to the mane. Had bound my neck in lieu of rein, And, writhing half my form about, Howl'd back my curse ; but 'midst the tread, The thunder of my courser's speed, Perchance they did not hear or heed. It vexes me — for I would fain Have paid their insult back again. I paid it well in after days : There is not of that castle-gate, Its drawbridge and portcullis weight, Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left ; Nor of its fields a blade of grass, Save what grows on a ridge of wall, 192 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall ; And many a time ye there might pass, Nor dream that e'er that fortress was. I saw its turrets in a blaze, Their crackling battlements all cleft, And the hot lead pour down like rain From off the scorch'd and blackening roof, Whose thickness was not vengeance proof. They little thought that day of pain, When launch'd, as on the lightning's flash, They bade me to destruction dash, That one day I should come again, With twice five thousand horse, to thank The Count for his uncourteous ride. They play'd me then a bitter prank, When, with the wild horse for my guide, They bound me to his foaming flank ; At length I play'd them one as frank — - For time at last sets all things even — And if we do but watch the hour, There never yet was human power Which could evade, if unf orgiven, The patient search and vigil long Of him who treasures up a wrong. XI. " Away, away, my steed and I, Upon the pinions of the wind, All human dwellings left behind ; We sped like meteors through the sky, When with its crackling sound the night Is chequer'd with the northern light. Town — village — none were on our track, But a wild plain of far extent, And bounded by a forest black ; And, save the scarce seen battlement On distant heights of some strong hold, Against the Tartars built of old, No trace of man. The year before MAZEPPA. 193 A Turkish army had marched o'er ; And where the Spahi's hoof hath trod, The verdure flies the bloody sod : The sky was dull, and dim, and grey. And a low breeze crept moaning by — I could have answered with a sigh — But fast we fled, away, aw ay, And I could neither sigh nor pray ; And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain Upon the courser's bristling mane ; But, snorting still with rage and fear, He flew upon his far career : At times I almost thought, indeed, He must have slacken'din his speed; But no — my bound and slender frame * Was nothing to his angry might, And merely like a spur became ; Each motion which I made to free My swol'n limbs from their agony Increased his fury and affright : I tried my voice, — 'twas faint and low, x But yetrhe swerv'd as from a blow; And, starting to each accent, sprang As from a sudden trumpet's clang : Meantime my cords were wet with gore, Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er ; And in my tongue the thirst became A something fierier far than flame. XII. ' ' We near'd the wild wood — 'twas so wide, I saw no bounds on either side : 'Twas studded with old sturdy trees, That bent not to the roughest breeze Which howls down from Siberia's waste, And strips the forest in its haste, — But these were few and far between, Set thick with shrubs more ycung and gree» Luxuriant with their annual leaves, 194 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. Ere strown by those autumnal eves, That nip the forest's foliage dead, Discolor' d with a lifeless red, Which stands thereon like stiff en'd gore, Upon the slain when battle's o'er, And some long winter's night hath shed Its frosts o'er every tombless head, So cold and stark the raven's beak May peck unpierced each frozen cheek : 'Twas a wild waste of underwood, And here and there a chestnut stood, The strong oak, and the hardy pine ; But far apart — and well it were, Or else a different lot were mine — The boughs gave way, and did not tear My limbs ; and I found strength to bear My wounds, already scarr'd with cold — My bonds forbade to loose my hold. We rustled through the leaves like wind, Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind ; By night I heard them on the track. Their troop came hard upon our back, With their long gallop, which can tire The hound's deep hate, and hunter's fire ; Where'er we flew they follow'd on, Nor left us with the morning sun ; Behind I saw them, scarce a rood, At daybreak winding through the wood, And through the night had heard their feet Their stealing, rustling step repeat. Oh ! how I wish'd for spear or sword, At least to die amidst the horde, And perish — if it must be so — At bay, destroying many a foe ! When first my courser's race begun, I wish'd the goal already won ; But now I doubted strength and speed. Vain doubt ! his swift and savage breed Had nerved him like the mountain-roe • Nor faster falls the blinding snow MAZEPPA. 195 Which whelms the peasant near the door Whose threshold he shall cross no more, Bewilder'd with the dazzling blast, Than through the forest-paths he pass'd — Untired, untamed, and worse than wild ; All furious as a favor'd child Balk'd of its wish ; or fiercer still, — A woman piqued — who has her will. XIII. u The wood was pass'd; 'twas more than noon, But chill the air, although in June ; Or it might be my veins ran cold — Prolong' d endurance tames the bold ; And I was then not what I seem, But headlong as a wintry stream, And wore my feelings out before I well could count their causes o'er : And what with fury, fear and wrath, The tortures which beset my path, Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress, Thus bound in nature's nakedness ; Sprung from a race whose rising blood When stirred beyond its calmer mood, And trodden hard upon, is like The rattlesnake's, in act to strike, What marvel if this worn-out trunk Beneath its woes a moment sunk? The earth gave way, the skies roll'd round, I seem' d to sink upon the ground; But err'd, for I was fastly bound. My heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sore And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more : The skies spun like a mighty wheel; I saw the trees like drunkards reel, And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes, Which saw no farther : he who dies Can die no more than then I died. O'ertortured by that ghastly ride, 196 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. I felt the blackness come and go. And strove to wake ; but could not make My senses climb up from below : I felt as on a plank at sea, When all the waves that dash o'er thee, At the same time upheave and whelm, And hurl thee towards a desert realm. My undulating life was as The fancied lights that flitting pass Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when Fever begins upon the brain ; . But soon it pass'd with little pain, But a contusion worse than such ; I own that I should deem it much, Dying, to feel the same again ; And yet I do suppose we must Feel far more ere we turn to dust : No matter ; I have bared my brow Full in Death's face — before — and now. XIV. " My thoughts came back; where was I? Cold, And numb and giddy : pulse by pulse Life reassumed its lingering hold, And throb by throb, — till grown a pang Which for a moment could convulse, My blood reflow'd, though thick and chill,- My ear with uncouth noises rang, My heart began once more to thrill, My sight return'd, though dim ; alas ! And thicken'd, as it were, with glass. Methought the dash of waves was nigh ; There was a gleam too of the sky, Studded with stars ; — it is no dream ; The wild horse swims the wilder stream ! The bright, broad river's gushing tide Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide. And we are half-way, struggling o'er To yon unknown and silent shore. MAZEPPA 197 The waters broke my hollow trance, And with a temporary strength My stiffen'd limbs were rebaptized. My courser's broad breast proudly braves, And dashes off the ascending waves. And onw ard we advance ! We reach the slippery shore at length, A haven I but little prized, For all behind was dark and drear, And all before was night and fear. How many hours of night or day In those suspended pangs I lay, I could not tell ; I scarcely knew If this were human breath I drew. xv. " With glossy skin, and dripping mane, And reeling limbs, and reeking flank, The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain Up the repelling bank. We gain the top ; a boundless plain Spreads through the shadow of the night, And onward, onward, onward, seems, Like precipices in our dreams, To stretch beyond the sight ; And here and there a speck of white, Or scatter'd spot of dusky green, In masses broke into the light, As rose the moon upon my right : But nought distinctly seen In the dim waste would indicate The omen of a cottage gate ; No twinkling taper from afar Stood like a hospitable star ; Not even an ignis-fatuus rose To make him merry with my woes : That very cheat had cheer'd me then ? Although detected, welcome still Reminding me, through every ill, Of the abodes of men. 198 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. XVI. 1 1 Onward we went — but slack and slow ; His savage force at length o'erspent, The drooping courser, faint and low. Or feebly foaming went. A sickly infant had had power To guide him forward in that hour ; But useless all to me : His new-born tameness nought avail'd — My limbs were bound ; my force had f ail'd, Perchance, had they been free. With feeble efforts still I tried To rend the bonds so starkly tied, But still it was in vain ; My limbs were only wrung the more, And soon the idle strife gave o'er, Which but prolong' d their pain : The dizzy race seem'd almost done, Although no goal was nearly won : Some streaks announced the coming Sun — How slow, alas ! he came ! Methought that mist of dawning grey Would never dapple into day ; How heavily it roll'd away- Bef ore the eastern flame Rose crimson, and deposed the stars, And call'd the radiance from their cars, And filFd the earth, from his deep throne, With lonely lustre, all his own. XVII. 1 ' Up rose the sun : the mists were cuiTd Back from the solitary world Which lay around — behind — before What booted it to traverse o'er Plain, forest, river? Man nor brute, Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot, Lay in the wild luxuriant soil ; No sign of travel— none of toil- MAZEPPA. 199 The very air was mute ; And not an insect's shrill small horn, Nor matin bird's new voice was borne From herb nor thicket. Many a werst, Panting as if his heart would burst, The weary brute still stagger'd on ; And still we were — or seem'd — alone. At length, while reeling on our way, Methought I heard a courser neigh, From out yon tuft of blackening firs. Is it the wind those branches stirs? No, no ! from out the forest prance A trampling troop ; I see them come ! In one vast squadron they advance ! I strove to cry — my lips were dumb. The steeds rush on in plunging pride ; But where are they the reins to guide? A thousand horse — and none to ride ! With flowing tail, and flying mane, Wide nostrils — never stretch'd by pain, Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein, And feet that iron never shod, And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod, A thousand horse, the wild, the free, Like waves that follow o'er the sea, Came thickly thundering on, As if our faint approach to meet ; The sight re-nerved my courser's feet, A moment staggering, feebly fleet, A moment, with a faint low neigh, He answered and then fell ; With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, And reeking limbs immovable, His first and last career is done ! On came the troop — they saw him stoop, They saw me strangely bound along His back with many a bloody thong ; They stop — they start — they snuff the air, Gallop a moment here and there, Approach, retire, wheel round and round, 200 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. Then plunging back with sudden bound, Headed by one black mighty steed, Who seemM the patriarch of his breed, Without a single speck or hair Of white upon his shaggy hide ; They snort— they foam — neigh — swerve aside . And backward to the forest fly, By instinct, from a human eye. They left me there to my despair, Link'd to the dead and stiffening wretch Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch. Believed from that unwonted weight, From whence I could not extricate Nor him nor me — and there we lay The dying on the dead ! I little deem'd another day Would see my houseless, helpless head. 1 ' And there from morn till twilight bound, I felt the heavy hours toil round, With just enough of life to see My last of suns go down on me, In hopeless certainty of mind, That makes us feel at length resign'd To that which our foreboding years Present the worst and last of fears : Inevitable — even a boon, Nor more unkind for coming soon, Yet shunn'd and dreaded with such care, As if it only were a snare That prudence might escape : At times both wish'd for and implored, At times sought with self -pointed sword, Yet still a dark and hideous close To even intolerable woes, And welcome in no shape. And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure, They who have revell'd beyond measure In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure, Die calm, and calmer, oft than he MAZEPPA. 201 Whose heritage was misery : For he who hath in turn run through All that was beautiful and new, Hath nought to hope, and nought to leave ; And, save the future (which is view'd Not quite as men are base or good, But as their nerves may be endued,) With nought perhaps to grieve : The wretch still hopes his woes must end, And Death, whom he should deem his friend, Appears, to his distemper'd eyes, Arrived to rob him of his prize, The tree of his new Paradise. To-morrow would have given him all, Eepaid his pangs, repair'd his fall ; To-morrow would have been the first Of days no more deplored or curst, But bright, and long, and beckoning years, Seen dazzling through the mist of tears, Guerdon of many a painful hour ; To-morrow would have given him power To rule, to shine, to smite, to save — And must it dawn upon his grave? XVIII. "The sun was sinking — still I lay Chain'd to the chill and stiffening steed ; I thought to mingle there our clay ; And my dim eyes of death had need. No hope arose of being freed : I cast my last lcoks up the sky, And there between me and the sun I saw the expecting raven fly, Who scarce would wait till both should die, Ere his repast begun ; He flew, and perch'd, then flew once more, And each time nearer than before: I saw his wing through twilight flit, And once so near me he alit, 202 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. I could have smote, but lack'd the strength ; But the slight motion of my hand, And feeble scratching of the sand, The exerted throat's faint struggling noise, Which scarcely could be call'd a voice, Together scared him off at length. I know no more — my latest dream Is something of a lovely star Which fix'd my dull eyes from afar, And went and came with wandering beam, And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense Sensation of recurring sense, And then subsiding back to death, And then again a little breath, A little thrill, a short suspense, And icy sickness curdling o'er My heart, and sparks that cross'd my brain A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, A sigh, and nothing more. XIX. " I woke — Where was I? — Do I see A human face look down on me? And doth a roof above me close? Do these limbs on a couch repose? Is this a chamber where I lie? And is it mortal yon bright eye? That watches me with gentle glance? I close my own again once more, As doubtful that my former trance Could not as yet be o'er. A slender girl, long hair'd, and tall, Sate watching by the cottage wall ; The sparkle of her eye I caught, Even with my first return of thought; For ever and anon she threw A prying, pitying glance on me With her black eyes so wild and free : I gazed, and gazed, until I knew MAZEPPA. 203 No vision it could be, — But that I lived and was released From adding to the vulture's feast: And when the Cossack maid beheld My heavy eyes at length unseal'd, She smiled — and I essay'd to speak, But fail'd — and she approach'd, and made "With lip and finger signs that said, I must not strive as yet to break The silence, till my strength should be Enough to leave my accents free ; And then her hand on mine she laid, And smooth'd the pillow for my head And stole along on tiptoe tread, And gently oped the door, and spake In whispers — ne'er was voice so sweet ! Even music follow' d her light feet ; But those she call'd were not awake, And she went forth ; but, ere she pass'd. Another look on me she cast, Another sign she made, to say, That I had nought to fear, that all Were near, at my command or call, And she would not delay Her due return : — while she was gone, Methought I felt too much alone. XX. "She came with mother and with sire — What need of more? — I will not tire With long recital of the rest, Since I became the Cossack's guest. They found me senseless on the plain — They bore me to the nearest hut — They brought me into life again — Me— one day o'er their realm to reign ! Thus the vain fool who strove to glut His rage, refining on my pain, Sent me forth to the wilderness, 204 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone, To pass the desert to a throne, — What mortal his own doom may guess Let none despond, let none despair ! To-morrow the Borysthenes May see our coursers gaze at ease Upon his Turkish bank, — and never Had I such welcome for a river As I shall yield when safely there. Comrades, good night ! "—The Hetman threw His length beneath the oak-tree shade. With leafy couch already made, A bed nor comfortless nor new To him, who took his rest whene'er The hour arrived, no matter where : His eyes the hastening slumbers steex^. And if ye marvel Charles forgot To thank his tale, he wondered not,— The king had been an hour asleep. THE RIME OF The Ancient Mariner. IN SEVEN PARTS. PART THE FIRST. [An ancient Mariner meeteth three Gallants bidden to a wedding- feast, and detaineth one.] It is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three, i 4 By thy long gray beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? " The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, And I am next of kin ; The guests are met, the feast is set: May'st hear the merry din. " He holds him with his skinny hand, 44 There was a ship," quoth he. 4 'Hold off! unhand me, gray -beard loon! " Eftsoons his hand dropt he. [The Wedding-Guest is spell-bound by the eye of the old sea-faring man, and constrained to hear his tale.] He holds him with his glittering eye — The Wedding-Guest stood still, And listens like a three-years 7 child : The Mariner hath his will. 206 THE ELZE VIE LIBRAE Y. . The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone; He cannot choose but hear ; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner. The ship was cheered, the harbor cleared, Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill, Below the lighthouse top. (The Mariner tells how the ship sailed southward with good wind and fair weather, till it reached the Line. ] The Sun came up upon the left Out of the sea came he ! And he shone bright, and on the right Went down into the sea. Higher and higher every day, Till over the mast at noon — The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, For he heard the loud bassoon. [The Wedding-Guest heareth the bridal music; but the Mariner con- tinue th his tale.] The bride hath paced into the hall, Eed as a rose is she ; Nodding their heads before her goes The merry minstrelsy. The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, Yet he cannot choose but hear ; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner. (The ship drawn by a storm toward the south pole.l And now the Storm-blast came, and he Was tyrannous and strong : He struck with his o'ertaking wings, And chased us south along. THE ANCIENT MARINER. 207 With sloping masts and dipping prow, As who pursued with yell and blow Still treads the shadow of his foe And forward bends his head, The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, ' And southward aye we fled. [The land of ice, and of fearful sounds, where no living thing was to be seen.] And now there came both mist and snow, And it grew wondrous cold : And ice, mast-high, came floating by, As green as emerald. And through the drifts the snowy clifts Did send a dismal sheen : Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — The ice was all between. The ice was here, the ice was there, The ice was all around : It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, Like noises in a swound ! [Till a great sea-bird, called the Albatross, came through the snow fog, and was received with great joy and hospitality. J At length did cross an Albatross : Through the fog it came ; As if it had been a Christian soul, We hailed it in God's name. It ate the food it ne'er had ate, And round and round it flew. The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; The helmsman steered us through ! (And lo! the Albatross proveth a bird of good omen, and followeth the ship as it returned northward, through fog and floating ice. J And a good south wind sprung up behind ; The Albatross did follow, And every day, for food or play, Came to the mariners' hollo ! 208 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, It perched for vespers nine ; Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, Glimmered the white Moon-shine. [The ancient Mariner inhospitably killeth the pious bird of good omen.] "God save thee, ancient Mariner! From the fiends, that plague thee thus ! — Why look'st thou so?"— With my cross-bow I shot the Albatross. PART THE SECOND. The Sun now rose upon the right Out of the sea came he, Still hid in mist, and on the left Went down into the sea. And the good south wind still blew behind, But no sweet bird did follow, Nor any day, for food or play, Came to the mariners' hollo ! [His ship-mates cry out against the ancient Mariner, for killing the bird of good luck. J And I had done an hellish thing, And it would work 'em woe : For all averred, I had killed the bird That made the breeze to blow. Ah , wretch ! said they, the bird to slay, That made the breeze to blow ! [But when the fog cleared off, they justify the same, and thus make Ihemsel ves accomplices in the crime . J Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, The glorious Sun uprist : Then all averred, I had killed the bird That brought the fog and mist. Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, That bring the fog and mist. THE A NCIENT MARINER. 209 (The fair breeze continues ; the ship enters the Pacific Ocean and sails northward, even till it reaches the Line. The ship hath been suddenly becalmed.] The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, The furrow followed free : We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea. Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, ' Twas sad as sad could be ; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea ! All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody Sun, at noon, Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the Moon. Day after day, day after day, We stutf k, nor breath nor motion ; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean. f-And the Albatross begins to be avenged. J Water, water, every where, And all the boards did shrink; Water, water, every where, Nor any drop to drink. The very deep did rot : O Christ ! That ever this should be ! Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs Upon the slimy sea. About, about, in reel and rout The death fires danced at night ; The water, like a witch's oils, Burnt green, and blue, and whita 210 HE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. [A spirit had followed them; one of the invisible inhabitants of this {>fanet, neither departed souls nor angels; concerning whom the earned Jew, Josephus, and the Platonic Constantinopolitan, Michael Psellus, may be consulted . They are very numerous, and there is no climate or element without one or more.] And some in dreams assured were Of the spirit that plagued us so : Nine fathom deep he had followed us From the land of mist and snow. And every tongue, through utter drought, Was withered at the root ; We could not speak, no more than if We had been choked with soot. - [The ship-mates in their sore distress would fain throw the whole guilt on the ancient Mariner: in sign whereof they hang the dead sea-bird round his neck. J Ah ! well-a-day ! what evil looks Had I from old and young ! Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung. PART THE THIRD. There passed a weary time. Each throat Was parched, and glazed each eye. A weary time ! a weary time ! How glazed each weary eye. When looking westward I beheld A something in the sky. [The ancient Mariner beholdeth a sign in the element afar off. \ At first it seemed a little speck, And then it seemed a mist : It moved and moved, and took at last A certain shape, I wist. A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! And still it neared and neared : As if it dodged a water-sprite, It plunged and tacked and veered. THE ANCIENT MARINER. 211 [At its nearer approach, it seemeth him to be a ship; and at a dear ransom he freeth his speech from the bonds of thirst.] With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, We could not laugh nor wail ; Through utter doubt all dumb we stood ! I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, And cried, A sail ! a sail ! [Afiash-of joy.] With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, Agape they heard me call : Gramercy ! they for joy did grin, And all at once their breath drew in, As they were drinking all. I And horror follows. For can it be a ship that comes onward with- out wind or tide ?] See ! see ! (I cried) she tacks no more ! Hither to work us weal ; Without a breeze, without a tide, She steadies with upright keel ! The western wave was all aflame, The day was well-nigh done ! Almost upon the western wave Eested the broad bright Sun ; When that strange ship drove suddenly Betwixt us and the Sun. And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, (Heaven's Mother send us grace !) As if through a dungeon-grate he peered, With broad and burning face. [It seemeth to him but the skeleton of a ship.] Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud,) How fast she nears and nears ! Are those her sails that glance in the Sun. Like restless gossameres ! 212 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. I. And its ribs are seen as bars on the face of the setting Sun. The spectre-woman and her death-mate, and no other on board the skele- ton-ship. Like vessel, like crew . ] Are those her ribs through which the Sun Did peer, as through a grate? And is that woman all her crew ? Is that a Death? and are there two? Is Death that Woman's mate? Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold ; Her skin was as white as leprosy, The Night-Mare Life-in-Death was she, Who thicks man's blood with cold. [Death and Life-in-Death have diced for the ship's crew, and she (the latter) winneth the ancient Mariner. No twilight within the •ourts of the Sun. J The naked hulk alongside came, And the twain were casting dice ; 1 ' The game is done ! I've, T ve won ! " Quoth she, and whistles thrice. The Sun's rim dips ; the stars rush out : At one stride comes the dark ; With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, Off shot the spectre-bark. We listened and looked sideways up ! Fear at my heart, as at a cup, My life-blood seemed to sip ! The stars were dim, and thick the night, The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white ; From the sails the dew did drip — Till clombe above the eastern bar The horned Moon, with one bright star Within the nether tip. I At the rising of the Moon, one after another, his shipmates drop down dead.] One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, Too quick for groan or sigh, TEE ANCIENT MARINER. 213 Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, And cursed me with his eye. Four times fifty living men (And I heard nor sigh nor groan), With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, They dropped down one by one. I But Life-in Death begins her work on the ancient Mariner. J The souls did from their bodies fly,— They fled to bliss or woe ! And every soul, it passed me by, Like the whizz of my cross-bow. PART THE FOURTH, f The Wedding-Guest feareth that a spirit is talking to him, j ' 1 1 fear thee, ancient Mariner ! I fear thy skinny hand ! And thou art long, and lank, and brown, As is the ribbed sea-sand.* " I fear thee, and thy glittering eye, And thy skinny hand, so brown."— [But the ancient Mariner assureth him of his bodily lif e, and pro. aeedeth to relate his horrible penance. ] Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Quest ! This body dropt not down. Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide, wide sea ! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony. * For the two last lines of this stanza, I am indebted to Mr. Words- worth. It was on a delightful walk from Nether Stowey to Dulver- ton, with him and his sister, in the Autumn of 179T, that this Poem was planned, and in part cou^x>sed. 214 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. The many men, so beautiful ! And they all dead did lie ; And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on ; and so did I. I looked upon the rotting sea, And drew my eyes away ; I looked upon the rotting deck, And there the dead men lay. I looked to Heaven, and tried to pray But or ever a prayer had gusht, A wicked whisper came, and made My heart as dry as dust. I closed my lids, and kept them close, And the balls like pulses beat ; For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky, Lay like a load on my weary eye, And the dead were at my feet. The cold sweat melted from their limbs, Nor rot nor reek did they : The look with which they looked on me Had never passed away. [The curse liveth for him in the eye of the dead men.] An orphan's curse would drag to Hell A spirit from on high ; But oh ! more horrible than that Is a curse in a dead man's eye ! Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, And yet I could not die. [In his loneliness and fixedness he yearneth towards the journey- ing Moon, and the stars that still sojourn, yet still move onward; and everywhere the blue sky belongs to them, and is their appointed rest, and their native country and their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords that are certainly expected and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival.] The moving Moon went up *he sky, And no where did abide : THE ANCIENT MARINER 215 Softly she was going up, And a star or two beside — Her beams bemocked her sultry main, Like April hoar-frost spread ; But where the ship's huge shadow lay, The charmed water burnt alway A still and awful red. [By the light of the Moon he beholdeth God's creatures of the great p.] Beyond the shadow of the ship, I watched the water-snakes : They moved in tracks of shining white, And when they reared, the elfish light Fell off in hoary flakes. Within the shadow of the ship I watched their rich attire : Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, They coiled and swam ; and every track Was a flash of golden fire. [Their beauty and their happiness . He blesseth them in his heartj O happy living things ! no tongue Their beauty might declare : A spring of love gushed from my heart, And I blessed them unaware ! Sure my kind saint took pity on me, And I blessed them unaware. [The spell begins to break. J The self same moment I could pray ; And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, and sunk Like lead into the sea. 216 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. .'ART THE FIFTH. Oh sleep ! it is a gentle thing, Beloved from pole to pole ! To Mary Queen the praise be given ! She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, That slid into my soul. [By grace of the holy Mother, the ancient Mariner is refreshed by rain.] The silly buckets on the deck, That had so long remained, I dreamt that they were filled with dew ; And when I woke, it rained. My lips were wet, my throat was cold, My garments all were dank ; Sure I had drunken in my dreams, And still my body drank. I moved, and could not feel my limbs : I was so light — almost I thought that I had died in sleep, And was a blessed ghost. [He heareth sounds, and seeth strange sights and commotions I9 Ihe sky and the element.] And soon I heard a roaring wind : It did not come anear ; But with its sound it shook the sails, They were so thin and sere. The upper air burst into life ! And a hundred fire-flags sheen, To and fro they were hurried about I And to and fro, and in and out, The wan stars danced between. And the coming wind did roar more loud, And the sails did sigh like sedge ; And the rain poured down from one black cloud j The Moon was at its edge. THE ANCIENT MARINER. 217 The thick black cloud was cleft, and still The Moon was at its side : Like waters shot from some high crag, The lightning fell with never a jag, A river steep and wide. [The bodies of the ship's crew are inspired, and the ship moves on.] The loud wind never reached the ship, Yet now the ship moved on ! Beneath the lightning and the Moon The dead men gave a groan. They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, Nor spake, nor moved their eyes : It had been strange, even in a dream, To have seen those dead men rise. The helmsman steered, the ship moved on; Yet never a breeze up blew ; The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, Where they were wont to do : They raised their limbs like lifeless tools— We were a ghastly crew. The body of my brother's son Stood by me, knee to knee : The body and I pulled at one rope, But he said naught to me. f But not by the souls of the men, nor by daemons of earth or middle air, but by a blessed troop of angelic spirits, sent down by the invo- cation of the guardian saint.] " I fear thee, ancient Mariner! " Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest ! 'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, Which to their corses came again, But a troop of spirits blest : For when it dawned — they dropped their arms* And clustered round the mast ; 218 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths* And from their bodies passed. Around, around, flew each sweet sound, Then darted to the Sun ; Slowly the sounds came back again, Now mixed, now one by one. Sometimes a-dropping from the sky I heard the sky-lark sing ; Sometimes all little birds that are, How they seemed to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning ! And now 'twas like all instruments, Now like a lonely flute ; And now it is an angel's song, That makes the Heavens be mute. It ceased ; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune. Till noon we quietly sailed on, Yet never a breeze did breathe : Slowly and smoothly went the ship, Moved onward from beneath. [The lonesome spirit from the south pole carries on the ship as far as the Line, in obedience to the angelic troop, but still requireth vengeance.] Under the keel nine fathom deep, From the land of mist and snow, The spirit slid : and it was he That made the ship to go. The sails at noon left oft their tune, And the ship stood still also. TEE ANCIENT MARINER. 219 The Sun, right up above the mast, Had fixed her to the ocean : But in a minute she 'gan stir, With a short uneasy motion — Backwards and forwards half her length With a short uneasy motion. Then like a pawing horse let go, She made a sudden bound ; It flung the blood into my head, And I fell down in a swound. [The Polar Spirit's f ellow-deemons, the invisible inhabitants of the element, take part in his wrong; and two of them relate, one to the other, that penance long and heavy for the ancient Marine** iiath been accorded to the Polar Spirit, who returneth southward.] How long in that same fit I lay, I have not to declare ; But ere my living life returned, I heard and in my soul discerned Two voices in the air. " Is it he? " quoth one, " Is this the manf By him who died on cross, With his cruel bow he laid full low, The harmless Albatross. " The spirit who bideth by himself In the land of mist and snow, He loved the bird that loved the man Who shot him with his bow." The other was a softer voice, As soft as honey-dew ■ Quoth he, " The man hath penance done, And penance more will do." 220 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY PART THE SIXTH. first voice: But tell me, tell me ! speak again, Thy soft response renewing — What makes that ship drive on so fast? What is the Ocean doing ? SECOND VOICE. Still as a slave before his lord, The Ocean hath no blast ; His great bright eye most silently Up to the Moon is cast — If he may know which way to go ; For she guides him sooth or grim. See, brother, see ! how graciously She looketh down on him. [The Mariner hath been cast into a trance; for the angelic power causeth the vessel to drive northward faster than human life could endure.] FIRST VOICE. But why drives on that ship so fast, Without or wave or wind? SECOND VOICE. The air is cut away before, And closes from behind. Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high ! Or we shall be belated : For slow and slow that ship will go, When the Mariner's trance is abated. [Theiupernatural motion is retarded; the Mariner awakes, and his penance begins anew.] I woke, and we were sailing on As in a gentle weather : 'Twas night, calm night, the Moon was high ; The dead men stood together. THE ANCIENT MARINER. 221 All stood together on the deck, For a charnel-dungeon fitter : All fixed on me their stony eye That in the Moon did glitter. The pang, the curse, with which they died, Had never passed away : I could not draw my eyes from theirs, Nor turn them up to pray. [The curse is finally expiated . ] And now this spell was snapt: once more I viewed the ocean green, And looked far forth, yet little saw Of what had else been seen — Like one, that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turned round walks on And turns no more his head ; Because he knows, a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread. But soon there breathed a wind on me, Nor sound nor motion made : Its path was not upon the sea, In ripple or in shade. It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek Like a meadow-gale or spring — It mingled strangely with my fears, Yet it felt like a welcoming. Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, Yet she sailed softly too : Sweetly, sweetly biew the breeze- On me alone it blew. 222 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. [And the ancient Mariner beholdeth his native country.] Oh ! dream of joy ! is this indeed The light-house top I see ? Is this the hill? is this the kirk? Is this mine own countree ? We drifted o'er the harbor-bar, And I with sobs did pray — let me be awake, my God ! Or let me sleep alway. The harbor-bay was clear as glass, So smoothly it was strewn ! And on the bay the moonlight lay, And the shadow of the moon. The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, That stands above the rock : The moonlight steeped in silentness The steady weathercock. And the bay was white with silent light, Till rising from the same, Full many shapes, that shadows were, In crimson colors came. A little distance from the prow Those crimson shadows were : 1 turned my eyes upon the deck — Oh, Christ ! what saw I there ! [The angelic spirits leave the dead bodies, and appear in their own forms of light,] Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, And, by the holy rood ! A man all light, a seraph-man, On every corse there stood. This seraph-band, each waved his hand: It was a heavenly sight! THE ANCIENT MARINER. 22B They stood as signals to the land, Each one a lovely light : This seraph-band, each waved his hand, No voice did they impart — No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank Like music on my heart. But soon I heard the dash of oars, I heard the Pilot's cheer ; My head was turned perforce away, And I saw a boat appear. The Pilot, and the Pilot's boy, I heard them coming fast: Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy The dead men could not blast. I saw a third™ I heard his voice : It is the Hermit good ! He singeth loud his godly hymns That he makes in the wood. Hell shrive my soul, he'll wash away The Albatross's blood. PART THE SEVENTH. [The Hermit of the Wood.] This Hermit good lives in that wood Which slopes down to the sea. How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! He loves to talk with marineres That come from a far countree. He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve™ He hath a cushion plump : It is the moss that wholly hides The rotted old oak-stump. 224 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. The skiff-boat neared : I heard them talk, ' ' Why this is strange, I trow ! Where are those lights so many and fair, That signal made but now?" [Approacheth the ship with wonder. ] "Strange, by my faith ! " the Hermit said— ' 'And they answered not our cheer ! The planks looked warped ! and see those sails How thin they are and sere ! I never saw aught like to them, Unless perchance it were Brown skeleton of leaves that lag My forest-brook along; When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, And the owlet whoops to the wolf below That eats the she-wolf's young. " " Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look (The Pilot made reply) I am a-f eared" — "Push on, push on! " Said the hermit cheerily. The boat came close to the ship, But I nor spake nor stirred ; The boat came close beneath the ship, And straight a sound was heard. f The ship suddenly sinketh. ] Under the water it rumbled on, Still louder and more dread: It reached the ship, it split the bay ; The ship went down like lead. (The ancient Mariner is saved in the Pilot's boat. J Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, Which sky and ocean smote, THE ANCIENT MARINER. 225 Like one that hath been seven days drowned My body lay afloat ; But swift as dreams, myself I found Within the Pilot's boat. Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, The boat spun round and round ; And all was still, save that the hill Was telling of the sound. I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked And fell down in a fit ; The holy Hermit raised his eyes And prayed where he did sit. I took the oars : the Pilot's boy, Who now doth crazy go, Laughed loud and long, and all the while His eyes went to and fro. " Ha! ha! " quoth he, " full plain I see, The Devil knows how to row." And now, all in my own countree, I stood on the firm land ! The Hermit stepped forth from the Doat, And scarcely he could stand. [The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the Hermit to shrievo him ; and the penance of life falls on him.] ' ' O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man !" The Hermit crossed his brow. " Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee say — What manner of man art thou? " Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched With a woeful agony, Which forced me to begin my tale ; And then it left me free. 22G THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. [And ever and anon throughout his future life an agony constrain eth him to travel from land to land. ] Since then, at an uncertain hour, That agony returns ; And till my ghastly tale is told, This heart within me burns. I pass, like night, from land to land ; I have strange power of speech ; That moment that his face I see, I know the man that must hear me : To him my tale I teach. What loud uproar bursts from that door ! The wedding-guests are there : But in the garden-bower the bride And bride-maids singing are ; And hark the little vesper bell, Which biddeth me to prayer ! O Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath been Alone on a wide wide sea : So lonely 'twas, that God himself Scarce seemed there to be. O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 'Tis sweeter far to me, To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company ! — To walk together to the kirk, And all together pray, While each to his great Father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends, And youths and maidens gay. [And to teach, by his own example, love and reveience to all things that God made and loveth. J Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell To thee, thou Wedding- G-uest ! THE ANCIENT MARINER. 227 He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast. He prayetn best, who loveth best All things both great and small ; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all. The Mariner, whose eye is bright, Whose beard with age is hoar, Is gone : and now the Wedding-Guest Turned from the bridegroom's door. He went like one that hath been stunned, And is of sense forlorn : A sadder and a wiser man, He rose the morrow morn. VIRGINIA. FRAGMENTS OF A LAY SUNG IN THE FORUM ON THE DAY WHEREON LUCIUS SEXTIUS SEXTINUS LATERANUS AND CAIUS LICINIUS CALVUS STOLO WERE ELECTED TRIBUNES OF THE COMMONS THE FIFTH TIME, IN THE YEAR OF THE CITY, CCCLXXXII. Ye good men of the Commons, with loving hearts and true, Who stand by the bold Tribunes that still have stood by you, Come, make a circle round me, and mark my tale with care, A tale of what Rome once hath borne, of what Rome yet may bear. This is no Grecian fable, of fountains running wine, Of maids with snaky tresses, or sailors turned to swine. Here, in this very Forum, under the noonday sun, in sight of all the people, the bloody deed was done. Old men still creep among us who saw that fearful day, Just seventy years and seven ago, when the wicked Ten bare sway. 230 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. Of all the wicked Ten still the names are held accursed. And of all the wicked Ten Appius Claudius was the worst. He stalked along the Forum like King Tarquin in his pride : Twelve axes waited on him, six marching on a side; The townsmen shrank to right and left, and eyed askance with fear His lowering brow, his curling mouth, which always seemed to sneer : That brow of hate, that mouth of scorn, marks all the kindred still ; For never was there Claudius yet but wished the Commons ill ; Nor lacks he fit attendance; for, close behind his heels, With outstretched chin and crouching pace the client Marcus steals, His loins girt up to run with speed, be the errand what it may, And the smile flickering on his cheek, for aught his lord may say. Such varlets pimp and jest for hire among the lying Greeks : Such" varlets still are paid to hoot when brave Licinius speaks. Where'er ye shed the honey, the buzzing flies will crowd ; Where'er ye fling the carrion, the raven's croak is loud ; Where'er down Tiber garbage floats, the greedy pike ye see ; And wheresoe'er such lord is found, such client still will be. • Just then, as through one cloudless cjiink in a black stormy sky, VIRGINIA. 231 Shines out the dewy morning-star, a fair young girl came by. With her small tablets in her hand, and her satchel on her arm, Home she went bounding from the school, nor dreamed of shame or harm ; And past those dreaded axes she innocently ran, With bright, frank brow that had not learned to blush at gaze of man ; And up the Sacred Street she turned, and, as she danced along, She warbled gayly to herself lines of the good old song, How for a sport the princes came spurring from the camp, And found Lucrece, combing the fleece, under the midnight lamp. The maiden sang as sings the lark, when up he darts his flight, From his nest in the green April corn, to meet the morning light ; And Appius heard her sweet young voice, and saw her sweet young face, And loved her with the accursed love of his accursed race, And all along the Forum, and up the Sacred Street, His vulture eye pursued the trip of those small glancing feet. Over the Alban mountains the light of morn- ing broke ; From all the roofs of the Seven Hills curled the thin wreaths of smoke : The city -gates were opened ; the Forum all alive, With buyers and with sellers, was humming like a hive : Blithely on brass and timber the craftsman's stroke was ringing, 232 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. And blithely o'er her panniers the market girl was singing, And blithely young Virginia came smiling from her home : Ah ! woe for young Virginia, the sweetest maid in Eome ! With her small tablets in her hand, and her satchel on her arm, Forth she went bounding to the school, nor dreamed of shame or harm. She crossed the Forum shining with stalls in alleys gay, ^nd just had reached the very spot whereon I stand this day, W*ien up the varlet Marcus came; not such &s when ere while >He crouched behind his patron's heels with the true Jient smile : He came with lowering forehead, swollen feat- ures and clenched fist, And strode t^rross Virginia's path, and caught her by the wrist, Hard strove tht. frighted maiden, and screamed with look aghast ; And at her scream from right and left the folk came running /ast : The money-changei Crispus, with his thin silver hairs, And Hanno from t\e stately booth, glittering with Punic wares And the strong smith Muraena, grasping a half- forged brand, And Volero the flesher, his cleaver in his hand. All came in wrath and wonder ; for all knew that fair child ; And, as she passed them twice a day, all kissed their hands and smiled ; And the strong smith Muraena gave Marcus such a blow, VIRGINIA. 233 The caitiff reeled three paces back ; and let the maiden go. Yet glared he fiercely round him, and growled in harsh, fell tone, " She's mine, and I will have her: I seek but for mine own: She is my slave, born in my house, and stolen away and sold, The year of the sore sickness, ere she was twelve hours old. 'Twas in the sad September, the month of wail and fright, Two augurs were borne forth that morn; the Consul died ere night. I wait on Appius Claudius, I waited on his sire : Let him who works the client wrong beware the patron's ire!" So spake the varlet Marcus; and dread and silence came On all the people at the sound of the great Claudian name. For then there was no Tribune to speak the word of might, Which makes the rich man tremble, and guards the poor man's right. There was no brave Licinius, no honest Sextius then; But all the city, in great fear, obeyed the wicked Ten. Yet ere the varlet Marcus again might seize the maid, Who clung tight to Muraena's skirt, and sobbed and shrieked for aid, Forth through the throng of gazers the young Icilius pressed, And stamped his foot, and rent his gown, and smote upon his breast, And sprang upon that column, by many a min- strel sung, 234 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. Whereon three mouldering helmets, three rust ing swords, are hung. And beckoned to the people, and in bold voice and clear Poured thick and fast the burning words which tyrants quake to hear. ' ' Now, by your children's cradles, now by your fathers' graves, Be men to-day, Quirites, or be for ever slaves ! For this did Servius give us laws? For this did Lucrece bleed? For this was the great vengeance wrought on Tarquin's evil seed? For this did those false sons make red the axes of their sire? For this did Scsevola's right hand hiss in the Tuscan fire? Shall the vile fox-earth awe the race that stormed the lion's den? Shall we, who could not brook one lord, crouch to the wicked ten? Oh for that ancient spirit which curbed the Senate's will ! Oh for the tents which in old time whitened the Sacred Hill! In those brave days our fathers stood firmly side by side ; They faced the Marcian fury ; they tamed the Fabian pride : They drove the fiercest Quinctius an outcast forth from Rome ; They sent the haughtiest Claudius with shivered fasces home. But what their care bequeathed us our madness flung away : Ail the ripe fruit of three-score years was blighted in a day. Exult, ye proud Patricians! The hard-fought fight is o'er. VIRGINIA. 235 We strove for honors — 'twas in vain : for freedom — 'tis no more. No crier to the polling summons the eager throng; No tribune breathes the word of might that guards the weak from wrong. Our very hearts, that were so high, sink down beneath your will. Riches, and lands, and power, and state^ye have them : — keep them still. Still keep the holy fillets ; still keep the purple gown, The axes, and the curule chair, the car, and laurel crown: Still press us for your cohorts, and, when the fight is done, Still fill your garners from the soil which our good swords have won. Still, like a spreading ulcer, which leech-craft may not cure, Let your foul usance eat away the substance of the poor. Still let your haggard debtors bear all their fathers bore ; Still let your dens of torment be noisome as of yore ; No fire when Tiber freezes ; no air in dog-star heat; And store of rods for free-born backs, and holes for free-born feet. Heap heavier still the fetters; bar closer still the grate ; Patient as sheep we yield us up unto your cruel hate. But, by the Shades beneath us, and by the gods above, Add not unto your cruel hate your yet more cruel love ! Have ye not graceful ladies, whose spotless lineage springs 036 . THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. From Consuls, and High Pontiffs, and ancient Alban kings? Ladies, who deign not on our paths to set their tender feet, Who from their cars look down with scorn upon the wondering street, Who in Corinthian mirrors their own proud smiles behold, And breathe of Capuan odors, and shine with Spanish gold ? Then leave the poor Plebeian his single tie to life— The sweet, sweet love of daughter, of sister, and of wife, The gentle speech, the balm for all that his vexed soul endures, The kiss, in which he half forgets even such a yoke as yours. Still let the maiden's beauty swell the father's breast with pride ; Still let the bridegroom's arms infold an un- polluted bride. Spare us the inexpiable wrong, the unutterable shame, That turns the coward's heart to steel, the slug- gard's blood to flame, Lest, when our latest hope is fled, ye taste of our despair, And learn by proof, in some wild hour, how much the wretched dare." Straightway Yirginius led the maid a little space aside, To where the reeking shambles stood, piled up with horn and hide, Close to yon low dark archway, where, in a crimson flood, VIRGINIA. 287 Leaps down to the great sewer the gurgling stream of blood. Hard by, a nesher on a block had laid his whit- tle down ; Virginius caught the ivhittle up and hid it in his gown. And then his eyes grew very dim, and his throat began to swell, And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, ' ' Fare- well, sweet child ! Farewell ! Oh ! how I loved my darling ! Though stern I sometimes be, To thee, thou know'st I was not so. Who could be so to thee? And how my darling loved me ! How glad she was to hear My footstep on the threshold when I came back last year ! And how she danced with pleasure to see my civic crown, And took my sword, and hung it up, and brought me forth my gown ! Now, all those" things are over — yes, all thy pretty ways, Thy needlework, thy prattle, thy snatches cf old lays ; And none will grieve when I go forth, or smile when I return, Or watch beside the old man's bed, or weep upon his urn. The house that was the happiest within the Roman walls, The house that envied not the wealth of Capua's marble halls, Now, for the brightness of thy smile, must have eternal gloom, And for the music of thy voice, the silence of the tomb. The time is come. See how he points his eager hand this way ! 238 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a kite's upon the prey ! With all his wit, he little deems, that, spurned, betrayed, bereft, Thy father hath in his despair one fearful refuge left. He little deems that in this hand I clutch what still can save Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of the slave ; Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt and blow — Foul outrage which thou knowest not, which thou shalt never know. Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one more kiss ; And now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way but this." With that he lifted high the steel, and smote her in the side, And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob she died. Then, for a little moment, all people held their breath ; And through the crowded Forum was stillness as of death ; And in another moment brake forth from one and all A cry as if the Yolscians were coming o'er the wall. Some, with averted faces, shrieking, fled home amain ; Some ran to call a leech ; and some ran to lift the slain ; Some felt her lips and little wrist, if life might there be found ; And some tore up their garments fast, and strovo stanch the wound. VIRGINIA. 239 In vain they ran, and felt, and stanched ; for never truer blow- That good right arin had dealt in fight against a Volscian foe. When Appius Claudius saw that deed, he shuddered and sank down, And hid his face some little space with the corner of his gown, Till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes Virgin- ius tottered nigh, And stood before the judgment-seat, and held the knife on high. 1 ' Oh ! dwellers in the nether gloom, avengers of the slain, By this dear blood I cry tc you, do right between us twain; And even as Appius Claudius hath dealt by me and mine, Deal you by Appius Claudius and all the Clau- dian line!" So spake the slayer of his child, and turned, and went his way ; But first he cast one haggard glance to where the body lay, And writhed, and groaned a fearful groan, and then with steadfast feet, Strode right across the market-place unto the Sacred Street. Then up sprang Appius Claudius : ' ' Stop him ; alive or dead ! Ten thousand pounds of copper to the man who brings his head." He looked upon his clients ; but none would work his will. He looked upon his lictors ; but they trembled. and stood still. And as Virginius through the press his way in silence clef t 9 240 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. Ever the mighty multitude fell back to right and left. And he hath passed in safety unto his woeful home, And there ta'en horse to tell the camp what deeds are done in Rome. By this the flood of people was swollen from every side, And streets and porches round were filled with that o'erflowing tide ; And close around the body gathered a little train Of them that were the nearest and dearest to the slain. They brought a bier, and hung it with many a cypress crown, And gently they uplifted her, and gently laid her down. The face of Appius Claudius wore the Claudian scowl and sneer, And in the Claudian note he cried, ' ' What doth this rabble here? Have they no crafts to mind at home, that hither- ward they stray? Ho! lictors, clear the market-place, and fetch the corpse away ! " The voice of grief and fury till then had not been loud; But a deep sullen murmur wandered among the crowd, Like the moaning noise that goes before the whirlwind on the deep, Or the growl of a fierce watch-dog but half- aroused from sleep. But when the lictors at that word, tail yeomen all and strong, Each with his axe and sheaf of twigs, went down into the throng, Those old men say, who saw that day of sorrow and of sin, VIRGINIA. 241 That in the Roman Forum was never such a din. Th? wailing, hooting, cursing, the howls of grief and hate, Were heard beyond the Pincian Hill, beyond the Latin Gate. But close around the body, where stood the little train Of them that were the nearest and dearest to the slain. No cries were there, Out teeth set fast, low whis- pers and black frowns, And breaking up of benches, and girding up of gowns. 'Twas well the lictors might not pierce to where the maiden lay, Else surely had they been all twelve torn limb from limb that day. Right, glad they were to struggle back, blood streaming from their heads, With axes all in splinters, and raiment all in shreds. Then Appius Claudius gnawed his lip, and the blood left his cheek ; And thrice he beckoned with his hand, and thrice he strove to speak ; And thrice the tossing Forum set up a frightful yell; 1 ' See, see, thou dog ! what thou hast done ; and hide thy shame in hell ! Thou that wouldst make our maidens slaves must first make slaves of men. Tribunes! Hurrah for Tribunes! Down with the wicked Ten ! " And straightway, thick as hailstones, came whizzing through the air, Pebbles, and bricks, and potsherds, all round the curule chair : And upon Appius Claudius great fear and trem- bling came ; For never was a Claudius yet brave against aught but shame. 242 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. Though the great houses love us not, we own, to do them right, That the great houses, all save one, have borne them well in fight. Still Caius of Corioli, his triumphs and his wrongs, His vengeance and his mercy, live in our camp- fire songs. Beneath the yoke of Furius oft have Gaul and Tuscan bowed ; And Rome may bear the pride of him of whom herself is proud. But evermore a Claudius shrinks from a stricken field, And changes color like a maid at sight of sword and shield. The Claudian triumphs all were won within the city towers ; The Claudian yoke was never pressed on any necks but ours, A Cossus, like a wild-cat, springs ever at the face; A Fabius rushes like a boar against the shouting chase ; But the vile Claudian litter, raging with currish spite, Still yelps and snaps at those who run, still runs from those who smite. So now 'twas seen of Appius. When stones began to fly, He shook, and crouched, and wrung his hands, and smote upon his thigh. 1 ' Kind clients, honest lictors, stand by me in this fray! Must I be torn in pieces^. Home, home, the nearest way ! " While yet he spake, and looked around with a bewildered stare, Four sturdy lictors put their necks beneath the e^srule chair ; YIJiaiNIA. 243 And four-score clients on the left, and four-score on the right, Arrayed themselves with swords and staves, and loins girt up for the fight. But, though without or staff or sword, so furious was the throng, That scarce the train with might and main could bring their lord along. Twelve times the crowd made at him ; five times they seized his gown ; Small chance was his to rise again, if once they got him down : And sharper came the pelting; and evermore the yell — ' ' Tribunes ! we will have Tribunes ! " — rose with a louder swell : And the chair tossed as tosses a bark with tattered sail When raves the Adriatic beneath an eastern gale, When the Calabrian sea-marks are lost in clouds of spume, And the great Thunder-Cape has donned his veil of inky gloom. One stone hit Appius in the mouth, and one beneath the ear ; And ere he reached Mount Palatine, he swooned with pain and fear. His cursed head, that he was wont to hold so high with pride, Now, like a drunken man's, hung down, and swayed from side to side ; And when . his stout retainers had brought him to his door, His face and neck were all one cake of filth and clotted gore. As Appius Claudius was that day, so may his grandson be ! God send Rome one such other sight, and send me there to see I # * * # * * * * * 244 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. IVRY: A SONG OF THE HUGUENOTS. Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom alj glories are ! And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France ! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourn- ing daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah ! Hurrah ! a single field hath turned the chance of war, Hurrah! Hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Na- varre. Oh ! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array ; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears. There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land ; IVliT. 245 And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand ; And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, And good Colignfs hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. The King is come to marshal us, in all his armor drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, ' ' God save our Lord the King !'.' " And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of "war. And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre." Hurrah ! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin. The fiery Duke is pricking fast across St. Andre's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, 246 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. Charge for the golden lilies,— upon them with the lance ! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest ; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne hath turned his rein. D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish count is slain. Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale ; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, " Remember St. Bartholomew," was passed from man to man. But out spake gentle Henry, " No Frenchman is my foe : * Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go.'" Oh ! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre? Eight well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day, And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. But we of the religion have borne us best in fight; And the good Lord of Rosny has ta'en the cornet white. ivnr. 24? Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, The cornet white with black, the flag of false Lorraine. Up with it high ; unfurl it wide ; that all the host may know How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His church such woo. Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war, Fling the red shreds, a f ootcloth meet for Henry of Navarre. Ho! maidens of Vienna; Ho! matrons of Lu- cerne ; Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. Ho! Philip, send, tot charity, the Mexican pis- toles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls. Ho ! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright ; Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night. For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are ; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre, 248 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. THE ARMADA: A FRAGMENT. Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble Eng- land's praise ; I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, When that great fleet invincible against her bore in vain The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain. It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day, There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth Bay ; Her crew hath seen Castile's black fleet, beyond Aurigny's isle, At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile. At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's es- pecial grace; And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase. Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the wall ; The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecumbe's lofty hall ; Many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along the coast, And with loose rein and bloody spur rode inland many a post. With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes ; THE ARMADA. 249 Behind him march the halberdiers ; before hin. sound the drums; His yeomen round the market cross make clear an ample space, For there behoves him to set up the standard of Her Grace. And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gayly dance the bells, As slow upon the laboring wind the royal blazon swells. Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down. So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field, Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Caesar's eagle shield. So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath he turned to bay, And crushed and torn beneath his claws the princely hunters lay. Ho ! strike the flagstaff deep, Sir Knight : Ho ! scatter flowers, fair maids : Ho ! gunners, fire a loud salute : Ho ! gallants ; draw your blades : Thou sun, shine on her joyously; ye breezes, waft her wide ; Our glorious semper eadem, the banner of our nride. The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that ban- ner's massy fold. The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haugh- ty scroll of gold ; Night sank upon the dusky beach and on the purple sea, Such night in England ne'er had been, nor ne'er again shall be. From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay, 250 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day ; For swift to east and swift to west the ghastly war-flame spread, High on St. Michael's Mount it shone : it shone on Beachy Head. Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire, Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twink- ling points of fire. The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glit- tering waves: The rugged miners poured to war from Mendip's sunless caves : O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew : He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, the rangers of Beaulieu. Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from Bristol town, And ere the day three hundred horse had met on Clifton down ; The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into the night, And saw o'erhanging Richmond Hill the streak of blood-red light. Then bugle's note and cannon's roar the death- like silence broke, j And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke. ' At once on all her stately gates arose the answer- ing fires ; At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires ; From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear ; And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer : And from the furthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet, THE ARMADA. 25*1 And the broad streams of pikes and flags rushed down each roaring street ; And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, As fast from every village round the horse came spurring in : And eastward straight from wild Blackheath the warlike errand went, And roused in many an ancient hail the gallant squires of Kent. Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew those bright couriers forth ; High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they started for the north ; And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still : All night from tower to tower they sprang* ; they sprang from hill to hill : Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er Dar- win's rocky dales, Till, like volcanoes, flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales, Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Mal- vern'e; lonely height, TiE streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrek- in's crest of light, Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely's stately fane. And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the boundless plain; Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the word to Lincoln sent, And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale of Trent ; Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embattled pile, And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burgh? ers of Carlisle. 252 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. THE BATTLE OF NASEBY. BY OBADIAH BIND THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND- THEIR-NOBLE3-WITH-LINKS-OF-IRON, SER- GEANT IN IRETON'S REGIMENT. (1824.) Oh ! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North, With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red? And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joy- ous shout? And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread? Oh evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit. And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod ; For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong, Who sate in the high places, and slew the saints of God. It was about the noon of a glorious day of June That we saw their banners dance, and their cuirasses shine, And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced hair, And Astley , and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine. Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword, The General rode along us to form us to fight, When a murmuring sound broke out, and swell'd into a shout, Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right. THE BATTLE OF JVASEBT. 253 And hark ! like the roar of the billows oii the shore, The cry of battle rises along their charging line ! For God ! for the Cause ! for the Church ! for the Laws ! For Charles King of England and Eupert of the Ehine ! The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums, His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall ; They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes, close your ranks ; For Eupert never comes but to conquer or to fall. They are here ! They rush on ! We are broken ! We are gone ! Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast. Lord, put forth thy might ! O Lord, defend the right! Stand back to back, in God's name, and fight it to the last. Stout Skippon hath a wound; the center hath given ground : Hark! hark! — What means the trampling of horsemen on our rear? Whose banner do L see, boys? 'Tis he, thank God, 'tis he, boys, Bear up another minute : brave Oliver is here. Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row, Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes, Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst, 254 THE ELZE VIR LIBRAE T. And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes. Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide Their coward heads, predestined to rot od Temple Bar ; And he — he turns, he flies: — shame on those cruel eyes That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war. Ho ! comrades, scour the plain ; and, ere ye strip the slain, First give another stab to make your search secure, Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad- pieces and lockets, The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor. Fools ! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold, When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day ; And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in the rocks, Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey. Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate, And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades, Your perfum'd satin clothes, your catches and your oaths, Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your dia- monds and your spades? THE BATTLE OF NASEBT. 255 Down, down, forever down with the mitre and the crown, "With the Belial of the Court and the Mammon of the Pope ; There is woe in Oxford halls : there is wail in Durham's Stalls : The Jesuit smites his bosom : the Bishop rends his cope. And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children's ills, And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's sword ; And the Kings of earth 1:1 fear shall shudder when they hear What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word THE HEAET OF THE BRUCE, It was upon an April morn, While yet the frost lay hoar, We heard Lo^d James's bugle-horn Sound by the rocky shore. ii. Then down wa went, a hundred knights, All in our dark array, And flung our armor in the ships That rode within the bay. m. We spoke not, as the shore grew less, But gazed in silence back. Where the long billows swept away The foam behind our track. IV. And aye the purple hues decayed Upon the fading hill, And but one heart in all that ship Was tranquil, cold, and still. v. The good Lord Douglas paced the deck — Oh, but his face was wan ! Unlike the flush it used to wear When in the battle-van. 258 LAYS OF THE VI. " Come hither, I pray, my trusty knight, Sir Simon of the Lee ; There is a f reit lies near my soul I needs must tell to thee. VII. 4 ' Thou know'st the words King Eobert spoke Upon his dying day : How he bade me take his noble heart And carry it far away ; VIII. " And lay it in the holy soil Where once the Saviour trod, Since he might not bear the blessed Cross, Nor strike one blow for God. IX. " Last night as in my bed I lay, I dreamed a dreary dream: — Methought I saw a Pilgrim stand In the moonlight's quivering beam. " His robe was of the azure dye — Snow-white his scattered hairs — And even such a cross he bore As good Saint Andrew bears. XI. " * Why go ye forth, Lord James/ he said, 4 With spear and belted brand? Why do you take its dearest pledge From this our Scottish land? XII. " * The sultry breeze of Galilee Creeps through its groves of palm, SCOTTISH CAVALIERS. 259 The olives on the Holy Mount Stand glittering in the calm. XIII. " 'But 'tis not there that Scotland's heart Shall rest, by God's decree, Till the great angel calls the dead To rise from earth and sea ! XIV. " 'Lord James of Douglas, mark my rede I That heart shall pass once more In fiery fight against the foe, As it was wont of yore. xv. " ' And it shall pass beneath the cross, And save King Bobert's vow ; But other hands shall bear it back, Not, James of Douglas, thou ! ' XVI. " ' Now, by thy knightly faith, I pray, Sir Simon of the Lee — No truer friend had never man Than thou hast been to me— XVII. ' If ne'er upon the Holy Land 'Tis mine in life to tread, Bear thou to Scotland's kindly earth The relics of her dead." XVIII. The tear was in Sir Simon's eye As he wrung the warrior's hand— " Betide me weal, betide me woe, I'll hold by thy command. 260 LA YS OF THE XIX. " But if in battle-front, Lord James, 'Tis ours once more to ride, Nor force of man, nor craft of fiend, Shall cleave me from thy side !" xx. And aye we sailed, and aye we sailed, Across the weary sea, Until one morn the coast of Spain Rose grimly on our lee, XXI. And as we rounded to the port, Beneath the watch-tower's wall, We heard the clash of the atabals, And the trumpet's wavering call. XXII. 1 'Why sounds yon Eastern music here So wantonly and long, And whose the crowd of armed men That round yon standard throng 2" XXIII. " The Moors have come from Africa To spoil, and waste, and slay, And King Alonzo of Castile Must fight with them to-day." XXIV. ' * Now shame it were, " cried good Lord James 1 ' Shall never be said of me, That I and mine have turned aside From the Cross in jeopardie ! XXV. " Have down, have down my merry men all- Have down unto -the plain ; SCOTTISH CAVALIERS. 261 We'll let the Scottish lion loose Within the fields of Spain!" XXYI. " Now welcome to me, noble Lord, Thou and thy stalwart power ; Dear is the sight of a Christian knight, Who comes in such an hour ! XXVII. " Is it for bond or faith you come, Or yet for golden fee? Or bring ye France's lilies here, Or the flower of Burgundie?" xxyin. ' ' God greet thee well, thou valiant king, Thee and thy belted peers — Sir James of Douglass am I called ; And these are Scottish spears. xxix. ' ' We do not fight for bond or plight, Nor yet for golden fee ; But for the sake of our blessed Lord. Who died upon the tree. xxx. " We bring our great King Robert's heart Across the weltering wave, To lay it in the holy soil Hard by the Saviour's grave. xxxi. " True pilgrims we, by land or sea, Where danger bars the way ; And therefore are we here, Lord King, To ride with thee this day ! " 262 LAYS OF THE XXXII. The King has bent his stately head, And. the tears were in his eyne — 4i Grod's blessing on thee, noble knight, For this brave thought of thine ! xxxm. " I know thy name full well, Lord James, And honored may I be, That those who fought beside the Bruce Should fight this day for me ! xxxiv. " Take thou the leading of the van, And charge the Moors amain ; There is not such a lance as thine In all the host of Spain ! " XXXV. The Douglas turned towards us then, Oh, but his glance was high ! " There is not one of all my men But is as frank as I. xxxvi. " There is not one of all my knights But bears as true a spear — Then — onwards, Scottish gentlemen, And think, King Kobert's here ! T> XXXVII. The trumpets blew, the cross-bolts flew, The arrows flashed like flame, As, spur in side, and spear in rest, Against the foe we came. XXXVIII. And many a bearded Saracen, Went down, both horse and man, SCOTTISH CAVALIERS. 263 For through their ranks we rode like corn, So furiously we ran ! XXXIX. But in behind our path they closed, Though fain to let us through ; For they were forty thousand men, And we were wondrous few. XL. We might not see a lance's length, So dense was their array, But the long fell sweep of the Scottish blade, Still held them hard at bay. XLI. " Make in ! make in ! " Lord Douglas cried— ' ' Make in, my brethren dear Sir William of St. Clair is down ; We may not leave him here ! " XLH. But thicker, thicker grew the swarm, And sharper shot the rain ; And the horses reared amid the press, But they would not charge again. XLIII. "Now Jesu help thee," said Lord James, 4 ' Thou kind and true St. Clair ! An' if I may not bring thee off, I'll die beside thee there ! " XLIV. Then in the stirrups up he stood, So lion-like and bold, And held the precious heart aloft All in its case of gold. 264 LAYS OF THE XLV. He flung it from him far ahead, And never spake he more, But — " Pass thee first, thou dauntless heart, As thou wert wont of yore ! " XLVI. The roar of fight rose fiercer yet. And heavier still the stour, Till the spears of Spain came shivering in r And swept away the Moor. XLVII. i ' Now praised be God the day is won ! They fly o'er flood and fell — Why dost thou draw the rein so hard, Good knight, that fought so well? " XLVIII. " Oh, ride ye on, Lord King! " he said, ' ; And leave the dead to me ; For I must keep the dreariest watch That ever I shall dree ! XLIX. " There lies above his master's heart, The Douglas, stark and grim ; And woe, that I am living man, Not lying there by him ! L. " The world grows cold, my arm is ola, And thin my lyart hair, And all that I loved best on earth Is stretched before me there. LI. 1 ' O Bothwell banks, that- bloom so bright Beneath the sun of May ! SCOTTISH CAVALIERS. 265 The heaviest cloud that ever blew Is bound for you this day. LII. " And, Scotland, thou may'st veil thy head In sorrow and in pain : The sorest stroke upon thy brow Hath fallen this day in Spain ! LIII. " We'll bear them back unto our ship, We'll bear them o'er the sea, And lav them in the hallowed earth, Within our own countrie. Liv. "And be thou strong of heart, Lord King, For this I tell thee sure, The sod that drank the Douglas' blood Shall never bear the Moor ! " LV. The King he lighted from his horse, He flung his brand away, And took the Douglas by the hand, So stately as he lay. LVI. " God give thee rest, thou valiant soul i That fought so well for Spain ; I'd rather half my land were gone, So thou wert here again ! " LVII. We lifted thence the good Lord James, And the priceless heart he bore ; x\nd heavily we steered our ship Towards the Scottish shore. 266 LAYS OF THE LVIII. No welcome greeted our return, Nor clang of martial tread, But all were dumb and hushed as death, Before the mighty dead. LIX. We laid our chief in Douglas Kirk, The heart in fair Melrose ; And woeful men were we that day — God grant their souls repose ! THE BUKIAL-MAKCH OF DUNDEE. Sound the fife, and cry the slogan — Let the pibroch shake the air With its wild triumphal music, Worthy of the freight we bear. Let the ancient hills of Scotland Hear once more the battle-song Swell within their glens and valleys As the clansmen march along ! Never from the field of combat, Never from the deadly fray, Was a nobler trophy carried Than we bring with us to-day— Never, since the valiant Douglas On his dauntless bosom bore Good King Robert's heart— the priceless- To our dear Redeemer's shore ! Lo ! we bring with us the hero — Lo ! we bring the conquering Graeme, Crowned as best beseems a victor From the altar of his fame ; Fresh and bleeding from the battle SCOTTISH CA VALIERS. 267 Whence his spirit took its flight, Midst the crashing charge of squadrons. And the thunder of the fight ! Strike, I say, the notes of triumph, As we march o'er moor and lea ! Is there any here will venture To bewail our dead Dundee? Let the widows of the traitors Weep until their eyes are dim ! Wail ye may full well for Scotland — Let none dare to mourn for him ! See ! above his glorious body Lies the royal 'banner's fold — See ! his valiant blood is mingled — With its crimson and its gold — See how calm he looks, and stately, Like a warrior on his shield, Waiting till the flush of morning Breaks along the battle-field ! See — Oh never more, my comrades, Shall we see that falcon eye Redden with its inward lightning, As the hour of tight drew nigh, Never shall we hear the voice that, Clearer than the trumpet's call, Bade us strike for King and Country Bade us win the field, or fall ! II. On the heights or Killiecrankie Yester-morn our army lay : Slowly rose the mist in columns From the river's broken way ; Hoarsely roared the swollen torrent, And the Pass was wrapt in gloom, When the clansmen rose together From their lair amidst the broom. Then we belted on our tartans, And our bonnets down we drew, And we felt our broadswords' edg^s, 268 LAYS OF THE And we proved them to be true ; And we prayed the prayer of soldiers, And we cried the gathering-cry, And we clasped the hands of kinsmen, And we swore to do or die ; Then our leader rode before us On his war-horse black as night — Well the Cameronian rebels Knew that charger in the fight ! — And a cry of exultation From the bearded warriors rose ; For we loved the house of Claver'se, And we thought of good Montrose. But he raised his hand for silence — ' ' Soldiers ! I have sworn a vow : Ere the evening star shall glisten On Schehallion's loftly brow, Either we shall rest in triumph, Or another of the Graemes Shall have died in battle-harness For his country and King James ! Think upon the Royal Martyr — Think of what his race endure — Think of him whom butchers murdered On the field of Magus Muir : — By his sacred blood I charge ye, By the ruined hearth and shrine — By the blighted hopes of Scotland, By your injuries and mine — Strike this day as if the anvil Lay beneath your blows the while, Be they covenanting traitors, Or the brood of false Argyle ! Strike ! and drive the trembling rebels Backwards o'er the stormy Forth ; Let them tell their pale Convention How they fared within the North. Let them tell that Highland honor Is not to be bought nor sold, That we scorn their prince's anger SCOTTISH CA VALIERS. 269 ! As we loathe his foreign gold. Strike ! and when the fight is over, If ye look in vain for me, Where the dead are lying thickest, Search for him that was Dundee ! " in. Loudly then the hills re-echoed With our .answer to his call, But a deeper echo sounded In the bosoms of us all. For the lands of wide Breadalbane, Not a man who heard him speak Would that day have left the battle. Burning eye and flushing cheek Told the clansmen's fierce emotion, And they harder drew their breath : And their souls were strong within them ? Stronger than the grasp of death. Soon we heard a challenge trumpet Sounding in the Pass below, And the distant tramp of horses, And the voices of the foe : Down we crouched amid the bracken, Till the Lowland ranks drew near, Panting like the hounds in summer, When they scent the stately deer. From the dark defile emerging, . Next we saw the squadrons come, Leslie's foot and Leven's troopers Marching to the tuck of drum ; Through the scattered wood of birches, O'er the broken ground and heath, Wound the long battalion slowly, Till they gained the plain beneath ; Then we bounded from our covert — Judge how looked the Saxons then, When they saw the rugged mountain Start to life with armed men ! Like a tempest down the ridges 270 LAYS OF THE Swept the hurricane of steel, Eose the slogan of Macdonald Flashed the broadsword of Locheill ! Vainly sped the withering volley 'Mongst the foremost of our band — On we poured until we met them, Foot to foot, and hand to hand. Horse and man went down like drift-wood - When the floods are black at Yule, And their carcasses are whirling In the Garry's deepest pool. Horse and man went down before us-^ Living foe there tarried none On the field of Killiecrankie, When that stubborn fight was done ! IV. And the evening star was shining On Schehallion's distant head, When we wiped our bloody broadswords, And returned to count the dead. There we found him gashed and gory, Stretched upon the cumbered plain, As he told us where to seek him, In the thickest of the slain. And a smile w^as on his visage, For within his dying ear, Pealed the joyful note of triumph, And the clansman's clamorous cheer ; So amidst the battle's thunder, Shot, and steel, and scorching flame, In the glory of his manhood Passed the spirit of the Graeme ! Open wide the vaults of Atholl, Where the bones of heroes rest- Open wide the hallowed portals To receive another guest ! SCOTTISH GA VALIERS. 271 Last of Scots and last of freemen — Last of all the dauntless race, Who would rather die unsullied Than outlive the land's disgrace I O thou lion-hearted warrior ! Eeck not of the after- time : Honor may be deemed dishonor, Loyalty be called a crime. Sleep in peace with kindred ashes Of the noble and the true, Hands that never failed their country, Hearts that never baseness knew. Sleep ! — and till the latest trumpet Wakes the dead from earth and sea, Scotland shall not boast a braver Chieftain than our own Dundee ! EDINBURGH AFTER FLODDEN. I. News of battle I— news of battle ! Hark ! 'tis ringing down the street : And the archways and the pavement Bear the clang of hurrying feet. News of battle i who hath brought it? News of triumph? Who should bring Tidings from our noble army, Greetings from our gallant King? All last night we watched the beacons Blazing on the hills afar, Eeah one bearing, as it kindled, Message of the opened war. All night long the northern streamers Shot across the trembling sky : Fearful lights that never beckon Save when kings or heroes die» 272 LAYS OF TEE II. News of battle ! Who hath brought it? All are thronging to the gate ; 1 ' Warder — warder ! open quickly ; Man — is this a time to wait? " And the heavy gates are opened : Then a murmur long and loud, And a cry of fear and wonder Bursts from out the bending crowd. For they see in battered harness Only one hard-stricken man ; And his weary steed is wounded, And his cheek is pale and wan : Spearless hangs a bloody banner In his weak and drooping hand — God ! can that be Randolph Murray, Captain of the city band ? in. Round him crush the people, crying, ' ' Tell us all ; oh, tell us true ! Where are they who went to battle, Randolph Murray, sworn to you ? Where are they, our brothers—children? Have they met the English foe? Why art thou alone, unf olio wed? Is it weal or is it woe? " Like a corpse the grisly warrior Looks out from his helm of steel ; But no word he speaks in answer — Only with his armed heel Chides his weary steed, and onward Up the city streets they ride — Fathers, sisters, mothers, children, Shrieking, praying by his side. " By the God that made thee, Randolph! Tell us what mischance hath come." Then he lifts his riven banner, And the asker's voice is dumb. SCOTTISH GA VALTERS. Z7§ IV. The elders of the city Have met within their hail — The men whom good King James had charged To watch the tower and wall. " Your hands are weak with age," he said, "Your hearts are stout and true ; So bide ye in the Maiden Town, While others fight for you. My trumpet from the Border-side Shall send a blast so clear, That all who wait within the gate That stirring sound may hear. Or, if it be the will of Heaven That back I never come, And if, instead of Scottish shouts, Ye hear the English drum, — Then let the warning bells ring out, Then gird you to the fray, Then man the walls like burghers stout ? And fight while fight you may. 'Twere better than in fiery flame The roofs should thunder down, Than that the foot of foreign foe Should trample in the town ! "' Then in came Bandolph Murray,— His step was slow and weak, And, as he doffed his dinted helm. The tears ran down his cheek : They fell upon his corslet And on his mailed hand, As he gazed around him wistfully, Leaning sorely on his brand. Vnd none who then beheld him But straight were smote with fear ? 274 LAYS OF THE For a bolder and a sterner man Had never couched a spear. They knew so sad a messenger Some ghastly news must bring ; And all of them were fathers, And their sons were with the King, VI. And up then rose the Provost — A brave old man was he, Of ancient name, and knightly fame, And chivalrous degree. He ruled our city like a Lord Who brooked no equal here, And ever for the townsman's rights Stood up 'gainst prince and peer. And he had seen the Scottish host March from the Borough-muir, With music-storm and clamorous shout. And all the din that thunders out When youth's of victory sure. But yet a dearer thought had he, — For with a father's pride, He saw his last remaining son Go forth by Randolph's side, With casque on head and spur on heel, All keen to do and dare ; And proudly did that gallant boy Dunedin's banner bear. Oh ! woeful now was the old man's look. And he spake light heavily— "Now, Randolph, tell thy tidings, However sharp they be ! Woe is written on thy visage, Death is looking from thy face, Speak ! though it be of overthrow — It cannot be disgrace ! SCOTTISH CA VALIERS. 275 VII. Eight bitter was the agony That wrung that soldier proud: Thrice did he strive to answer, And thrice he groaned aloud. Then he gave the riven banner To the old man's shaking hand, Saying— " That is all I bring ye From the bravest of the land. Ay * ye may look upon it — ■ It was guarded well and long, By your brothers and your children. By the valiant and the strong. One by one they fell around it, As the archers laid them low, Grimly dying, still unconquered, With their faces to the foe. Ay ! ye may well look upon it — There is more than honor there, Else, be sure, I had not brought it From the field of dark despair. Never yet was royal banner Steeped in such a costly dye ; It hath lain upon a bosom Where no other shroud shall lie, Sirs ! I charge you, keep it holy ; Keep it as a sacred thing, For the stain ye see upon it Was the life-blood of your King r VIII. Woe, and woe, and lamentation ! What a piteous cry was there ! Widows, maidens, mothers, children, Shrieking, sobbing in despair ! Through the streets the death- word rushes Spreading terror, sweeping on — " Jesu Christ ! our King has fallen— O Great God, King James is gone ! 276 LA YS OF THE Holy Mother Mary, shield us, Thou who erst didst lose thy Son ! O the blackest day for Scotland That she ever knew before ! O our King — the good, the noble, Shall we see him never more? Woe to us, and woe to Scotland ! O our sons, our sons and men ! Surely some have 'scaped the Southron, Surely some will come again ! Till the oak that fell last winter Shall uprear its shattered stem — Wives and mothers of Dunedin — Ye may look in vain for them ! IX. But within the Council Chamber All was silent as the grave, Whilst the tempest of their sorrow Shook the bosoms of the brave. Well indeed might they be shaken With the weight of such a blow: He was gone — their prince, their idol, Whom they loved and worshiped so ! Like a knell of death and judgment Eung from heaven by angel hand, Fell the words of desolation On the elders of the land. Hoary heads were bowed and trembling, Withered hands were clasped and wrung ; God had left the old and feeble, He had ta'en away the young. Then the Provost he uprose, And his lip was ashen white ; But a flush was on his brow, And his eye was full of light. SCOTTISH CAVALIERS: "Thou hast spoken, Randolph Murray, Like a soldier stout and true ; Thou hast done a deed of daring Had been perilled but by few. For thou hast not shamed to face us, Nor to speak thy ghastly tale, Standing — thou a knight and captain- Here, alive within thy mail ! Now, as my God shall judge me, I hold it braver done, Than hadst thou tarried in thy plac'e, And died above my son ! Thou need'st not tell it ; he is dead. God help us all this day ! But speak — how fought the citizens Within the furious fray ? For by the might of Mary ! 'Twere something still to tell That no Scottish foot went backward When the Royal Lion fell ! " XI. " No one failed him ! He is keeping Royal state and semblance still ; Knight and noble lie around him, Cold on Flodden's fatal hill. Of the brave and gallant-hearted, Whom you sent with prayers away, Not a single man departed From his monarch yesterday. Had you seen them, O my masters ! When the night began to fall, And the English spearmen gathered Round a grim and ghastly wall As the wolves in winter circle Round the leaguer on the heath, So the greedy foe glared upward, Panting still for blood and death. But a rampart rose before them, Which the boldest dared not scale : 278 LAYS OF THE Every stone a Scottish body, Every step a corpse in mail ! And behind it lay our monarch, Clenching still his shivered sword ; By his side Montrose and Athole, At his feet a Southron lord. All so thick they lay together, When the stars lit up the sky, That I knew not who were stricken, Or who yet remained to die. Few* there were when Surrey halted, And his wearied host withdrew ; None but dying men around me, When the English trumpet blew, Then I stooped, and took the banner As you see it, from his breast, And I closed our hero's eyelids, And I left him to his rest. In the mountains growled the thunder,, As I leaped the woeful wall, And the heavy clouds were settling Over Flodden, like a pall." XII. So he ended. And the others Cared not any answer then ; Sitting silent, dumb with sorrow, Sitting anguish-struck, like men Who have seen the roaring torrent Sw^eep their happy homes away, And yet linger by the margin, Staring wildly on the spray. But, without, the maddening tumult Waxes ever more and more, And the crowd of wailing women Gather round the Council door. Every dusky spire is ringing With a dull and hollow knell, And the Miserere's singing To the tolling of the bell. SCOTTISH CAVALIERS. 270 Through the streets the burghers hurry, Spreading terror as they go ; And the rampart's thronged with watchers For the coming of the foe. Fisom each mountain-top a pillar Streams into the torpid air, Bearing token from the Border That the English host is there. All without is flight and terror, All within is woe and fear — God protect thee, Maiden City, For thy latest hour is near ' XIII. No ! not yet, thou high Dunedin ! Shall thou totter to thy fall ; Though thy bravest and thy strongest Are not here to man the wall. No, not yet ! the ancient spirit Of our fathers hath not gone ; Take it to thee as a buckler Better far than steel or stone. Oh, remember those who perished For thy birthright at the time When to be a Scot was treason, And to side with Wallace crime ! Have they not a voice among us, Whilst their hallowed dust is here? Hear ye not a summons sounding From each buried warrior's bier? Up ! — they say — and keep the freedom Which we won you long ago : Up ! and keep our graves unsullied From the insults of the foe ! Up I and if ye cannot save them, Come to us in blood and fire : Midst the crash of falling turrets Let the last of Scots expire ! 280 LAYS OF THE XIV. Still the bells are tolling fiercely, And the cry comes louder in ; Mothers wailing for their children, Sisters for their slaughtered kin. All is terror and disorder, Till the Provost rises up, Calm, as though he had not tasted Of the fell and bitter cup. All so stately from his sorrow, Eose the old undaunted chief, That you had not deemed, to see him, His was more than common grief. * ' Eouse ye, Sirs ! " he said ; "we may i\ ,t Longer mourn for what is done ; If our King be taken from us, We are left to guard his son. We have sworn to keep the city From the foe, whate'er they be, And the oath that we have taken Never shall be broke by me. Death is nearer to us, brethern, Than it seemed to those who died, Fighting yesterday at Flodden, By their lord and master's side. Let us meet it then in patience, Not in terror or in fear ; Though our hearts are bleeding yonder, Let our souls be steadfast here. Up, and rouse ye ! Time is fleeting, And we yet have much to do; Up ! and haste ye through the city. Stir the burghers stout and true, Gather all our scattered people, Fling the banner out once more,— Randolph Murray ! do thou bear it> As it erst was borne before : Never Scottish heart will leave it, When they see their monarch's gore. SCOTTISH GA V ALTERS. 28 1 XV. "Let them cease that dismal knelling; It is time enough to ring, When the fortress-strength of Scotland Stoops to ruin like its King. Let the bells be kept for warning, Not for terrors or alarm ; When the next is heard to thunder, Let each man and stripling arm. Bid the women leave their wailing— Do they think that woeful strain, From the bloody heaps of Flodden, Can redeem their dearest slain? Bid them cease, — or rather hasten To the churches every one ; There to pray to Mary Mother, And to her anointed Son, That the thunderbolt above us May not fall in ruin yet ; That in fire and blood and rapine Scotland's glory may not set. Let them pray, — for never women Stood in need of such a prayer ! — England's yeoman shall not find them Clinging to the altars there. No ! if we are doomed to perish, Man and maiden, let us fall. And a common gulf of ruin Open wide to whelm us all ! Never shall the ruthless spoiler Lay his hot insulting hand On the sisters of our heroes, Whilst we bear a torch or brand ! Up ! and rouse ye, then, my brothers,— But when next ye hear the bell Sounding forth the sullen summons That may be our funeral knell, Once more let us meet together, Once more see each other's face ; 282 LAYS OF THE Then, like men that need not tremble Go to our appointed place. God, our Father will not fail us, In that last tremendous hour, — If all other bulwarks crumble, He will be our strength and tower: Though the ramparts rock beneath us, And the walls go crashing down, Though the roar of conflagration Bellow o'er the sinking town ; There is yet one place of shelter, Where the foemen cannot come, Where the summons never sounded Of the trumpet or the drum. There again we'll meet our children, Who, on Flodden's trampled sod, For their King and for their country Rendered up their souls to God. There shall we find rest and refuge, With our dear departed brave And the ashes of the city Be our universal grave ! " THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE. Do not lift him from the bracken, Leave him lying where he fell — Better bier ye cannot fashion : None beseems him half so well As the bare and broken heather, And the hard and trampled sod, Whence his angry soul ascended To the judgment-seat of God ! Winding-sheet we cannot give him- Seek no mantle for the dead, Save the cold and spotless covering SCOTTISH CAVALIERS. 283 Showered from heaven upon his head. Leave his broadsword as we found it, Bent and broken with the blow, Which, before he died, avenged him On the foremost of the foe. Leave the blood upon his bosom — Wash not off that sacred stain ; Let it stiffen on the tartan, Let his wounds unclosed remain, Till the day when he shall show them At the throne of God on high, When the murderer and the murdered Meet before their Judge's eye ! ii. Nay, ye should not weep, my children ; Leave it to the faint and weak ; Sobs are but a woman's weapon — Tears befit a maiden's cheek. Weep not, children of Macdonald ! Weep not thou, his orphan heir— Not in shame, but stainless honor, Lies thy slaughtered father there. Weep not — but when years are over, And thine arm is strong and sure, And thy foot is swift and steady On the mountain and the muir — Let thy heart be hard as iron, And thy wrath as fierce as fire, Till the hour when vengeance cometh For the race that slew thy sire ! Till in deep and dark Glenlyon Rise a louder shriek of woe, Than at midnight, from their eyrie, Scared the eagles of Glencoe : Louder than the screams that mingled With the howling of the blast, When the murderer's steel was clashing, And the fires were rising fast ; When the noble father bounded 284 LAYS OF THE To the rescue of his men, And the slogan of our kindred Pealed throughout the startled glen! When the herd of frantic women Stumbled through the midnight snow. With their fathers' houses blazing, And their dearest dead below ! Oh, the horror of the tempest, As the flashing drift was blown, Crimsoned with the conflagration, And the roofs went thundering down ! Oh, the prayers — the prayers and curses That together winged their flight From the maddened hearts of many Through that long and woeful night ! Till the fires began to dwindle, And the shots grew faint and few, And we heard the f oeman's challenge Only in a far holloo : Till the silence once more settled O'er the gorges of the glen, Broken only by the Cona Plunging through its naked den. Slowly from the mountain-summit Was the drifting veil withdrawn, And the ghastly valley glimmered In the grey December dawn. Better had the morning never Dawned upon our dark despair ! Black amidst the common whiteness Eose the spectral ruins there : But the sight of these was nothing More than wrings the wild-dove's breast. When she searches for her offspring Bound the relics of her nest. For in many a spot the tartan Peered above the wintry heap, Marking where a dead Macdonald Lay within his frozen sleep. Tremblingly we scooped the covering SCOTTISH CAVALIERS. 285 From each kindred victim's head, And the living lips were burning On the cold ones of the dead, And I left them with their dearest — Dearest charge had every one — Left the maiden with her lover, Left the mother with her son. I alone of all was mateless — Far more wretched I than they, For the snow would not discover Where my lord and husband lay. But I wandered up the valley, Till I found him lying low, With the gash upon his bosom And the frown upon his brow — Till I found him lying murdered, Where he wooed me long ago ! in. Women's weakness shall not shame me Why should I have tears to shed? Gould I rain them down like wauer, Oh my hero ! on thy head — Could the cry of lamentation Wake thee from thy silent sleep Could it set thy heart a-throbbing It were mine to wail and weep ! But I will not waste my sorrow, Lest the Campbell women say That the daughters of Clanranald Are as weak and frail as they. I had wept thee hadst thou fallen, Like our fathers, on thy shield, When a host of English f oemen Camped upon a Scottish field — I had mourned thee, hadst thou perished With the foremost of his name, When the valiant and the noble Died around the dauntless Graeme ! But I will not wrong thee, husband * 2SC> LAYS OF THE With my unavailing cries, Whilst thy cold and mangled body Stricken by the traitor lies ; Whilst he counts the gold and glory That this hideous night has won, And his heart is big with triumph At the murder he has done. Other eyes than mine shall glisten, Other hearts be rent in twain, Ere the heathbells on thy hillock Wither in the autumn rain. Then I'll seek thee where thou sleepest, And I'll veil my weary head, Praying for a place beside thee, Dearer than my bridal bed : And I'll give thee tears, my husband! If the tears remain to me, When the widows of the foemas. Cry the coronach for theei THE RAVEN. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pon- dered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of for- gotten lore— "While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping — rapping at my chamber door. " 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, " tapping at my chamber door, Only this, and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow ; vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore — For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore — Nameless here for evermore. 288 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me — filled me — with fantastic terrors never felt before ; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating "Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door ; This it is, and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, u or Madam, truly your forgive- ness I implore ; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door. Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whis- pered word, "Lenorel" THE RAVEN. 289 This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before. " Surely," said I, " surely that is something at my window-lattice ; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore ; Let my heart be still a moment, and this mys- tery explore : 'Tis the wind, and nothing more." Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Eaven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopped or stayed he, But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door — Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door — Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebon bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the counte- nance it wore, 290 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. " Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' 1 I said, ' ' art sure no craven, Ghastly, grim, and ancient Eaven, wandering from the Nightly shore. Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore !" Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning, little rele- vancy bore ; For we cannot help agreeing that no living hu- man being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door — Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore." But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered, Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before ! On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before !" Then the bird said, "Nevermore." THE RAVEN. 291 Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, ''Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom un- merciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore— Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy bur- den bore Of ' Never — nevermore !' " But the Eaven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door ; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore — What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore." This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core : This and more I sat divining, with my head a1 ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er, 292 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp- light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore ! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. " Wretch !" I cried, " thy God hath lent thee— by these angels he hath sent thee Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memo- ries of Lenore ! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget the lost Lenore !" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." " Prophet!" cried I, "thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil ! Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted — On this Home by horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore, Is there— is there balm in Gilead? Tell me ! - tell me, I implore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." "Prophet!" cried I, "thing of evil !— prophet still, if bird or devil ! By that Heaven that bends above us— by that God we both adore ! THE BA VEK 293 Tell this soul with sorrow laden, it, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend !" I shrieked, upstarting. "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore ! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door ! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door !" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my cham- ber door ; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted— nevermore! 294 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. LENORE. Ah, broken is the golden bowl ! — the spirit flown forever ! Let the bell toll!— A saintly soul floats on the Stygian river; And, Guy De Yere, hast thou no tear ? Weep now, or never more ! See, on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore! Come, let the burial rite be read, the funeral song be sung ! An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young — A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young. "Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride ! And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her — that she died ! How shall the ritual, then, be read?— the requiem how be sung By you— by yours, the evil eye, by yours, the slanderous tongue That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?" LENORE. 295 Peccavimus ! But rave not thus, and let a Sab- bath song Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong ! The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside, Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride ! For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies, The life upon her yellow hair, but not within her eyes— The life still there, upon her hair, the death upon her eyes. " Avaunt ! To-night my heart is light ! No dirge will I upraise, But waft the angel on her flight with a paean of old days ! Let no bell toll, lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth, Should catch the note as it doth float up from the damned Earth ! To friends above, from fiends below, the indig- nant ghost is riven, From Hell unto a high estate far up into the Heaven, From grief and groan to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven." 296 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. THE BELLS. I. Hear the sledges with the bells — Silver bells! f tells! What a world of merriment their melody fore- How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night ! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight ; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. II. Hear the mellow wedding bells — Golden bells! [tells! What a world of happiness their harmony fore- Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight ! From the molten golden notes, And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon ! THE BELLS. 297 Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! How it swells ! How it dwells On the Future ! How it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells, To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells ! III. Hear the loud alarum bells — Brazen bells! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright ! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavor Now — now to sit, or never, By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells Of Despair ! 208 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. How they clang, and clash, and roar ! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air ! Yet the ear it fully knows, By the twanging, And the clanging, How r the danger ebbs and flows ; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling, And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells, Of the bells; Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells In* the clamor and the clangor of the bells I IY. Hear the tolling of the bells — Iron bells ! [compels ! '\ What a world of solemn thought their monody In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone ! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people — ah, the people— They they dwell up in the steeple All alone, THE BELLS. 290 And who tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone : They are neither man nor woman, They are neither brute nor human, They are Ghouls ; And their king it is who tolls, And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Eolls a paean from the bells! And his merry bosom swells With the psean of the bells, And he dances, and he yells; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Eunic rhyme, To the psean of the bells— Of thebeUs; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Eunic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells; To the sobbing of the bells; Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Eunic rhyme, t To the rolling of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells ; To the tolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells, To the moaning and the groaning of the bells 300 ~UE ELZEVIR LIBRAE i ANNABEL LEE. It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know, By the name of Annabel Lee ; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea; But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee ; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee ; So that her highborn kinsman came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me ; Yes ! — that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) ANNABEL LEE. 301 That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we — Of many far wiser than we ; And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling— my darling— my life and my bride, In the sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea. 302 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. FOR ANNIE. Thank Heaven ! the crisis — The danger— is past, And the lingering illness Is over at last, And the fever called ''Living" Is conquered at last. Sadly, I know I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move As I lie at full length; But no matter ! — I feel I am better at length. ■ And I rest so composed Now, in my bed, That any beholder Might fancy me dead — Might start at beholding me, Thinking me dead. The moaning and groaning— The sighing and sobbing — Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbing At heart ; ah, that horrible, Horrible throbbing ! FOB ANWIE. 303 The sickness — the nausea — The pitiless pain — Have ceased with the fever That maddened my brain — With the fever called "Living" That burned in my brain. And oh ! of all tortures, That torture the worst Has abated — the terrible Torture of thirst For the napthaline river Of Passion accurst : I have drank of a water That quenches all thirst; Of a water that flows, With a lullaby sound, From a spring but a very few Feet under ground — From a cavern not very far Down under ground. And ah ! let it never Be foolishly said That my room it is gloomy, And narrow my bed ; For man never slept In a different bed ; And, to sleep, you must slumber In just such a bed. 304 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. My tantalized spirit Here blandly reposes, Forgetting, or never Kegretting its roses — Its old agitations Of: myrtles and roses. For now, while so quietly Lying, it fancies A holier odor About it, of pansies — A rosemary odor Commingled with pansies. With rue and the beautiful Puritan pansies. And so it lies happily, Bathing in many A dream of the truth And the beauty of Annie; Drowned in a bath Of the tresses of Annie. She tenderly kissed me, She fondly caressed, And then I fell gently To sleep on her breast — Deeply to sleep From the heaven of her breast, When the light was extinguished She covered me warm, FOR ANNIE. 305 And she prayed to the angels To keep me from harm — To the queen of the angels To shield me from harm. And I lie so composedly, Now, in my bed, (Knowing her love) That you fancy me dead ; And I rest so contentedly, Now in my bed, (With her love at my breast) That you fancy me dead — That you shudder to look at me, Thinking me dead. But my heart it is brighter Than all of the many Stars in the sky, For it sparkles with Annie, It glows with the light Of the love of my Annie — With the thought of the light Of the eyes of my Annie 306 TEE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. THE CITY IN THE SEA. Lo ! Death has reared himself a throne ' In a strange city lying alone Far down within the dim West, Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best Have gone to their eternal rest. There shrines and palaces and towers (Time-eaten towers that tremble not !) Resemble nothing that is ours. Around, by lifting winds forgot* Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie. No rays from the holy heaven come down On the long night-time of that town ; But light from out the lurid sea Streams up the turrets silently — Gleams up the pinnacles far and free — Up domes— up spires— up kingly halls— Up fanes— up Babylon-like walls — Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers— Up many and many a marvellous shrine Whose wreathed friezes intertwine The viol, the violet, and the vine. THE CITY IN THE SEA. 307 Resignedly, beneath the sky, The melancholy waters lie. So blend the turrets and shadows there That all seem pendulous in air ; While, from a proud tower in the town, Death looks gigantically down. There open fanes and gaping graves Yawn level with the luminous waves, But not the riches there that lie In each idol's diamond eye, Not the gayly-jewelled dead Tempt the waters from their bed ; For no rippjes curl, alas ! Along that wilderness of glass ; No swellings tell that winds may be Upon some far-off happier sea ; No heavings hint that winds have been On scenes less hideously serene. But lo ! a stir is in the air ! The wave— there is a movement there ! As if the towers had thrust aside, In slightly sinking, the dull tide ; As if their tops had feebly given A void within the filmy Heaven. The waves have now a redder glow, The hours are breathing faint and low ; And when, amid no earthly moans, Down, down that town shall settle hence, Hell, rising from a thousand thrones, Shall do it reverence. 308 THE ELZEVIR LIBRARY. DREAM-LAND. By a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only, Where an Eidolon, named Night, On a black throne reigns upright, I have reached these lands but newly, From an ultimate dim Thule— From a wild weird clinie that lieth, sublime, Out of Space— out of Time. Bottomless vales and boundless floods, And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods, With forms that no man can discover For the dews that drip all over ; Mountains toppling evermore Into seas without a shore ; Seas that restlessly aspire, Surging, unto skies of fire; Lakes that endlessly outspread Their lone waters — lone and dead- - Their still waters — still and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily. By the lakes that thus outspread Their lone waters, lone and dread — Their sad waters, sad and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily ; By the mountains, near the river Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever ; DREAM-LAND. 309 By the gray woods,— by the swamp Where the toad and the newt encamp ; By the dismal tarns and pools Where dwell the Ghouls ; By each spot the most unholy, In each nook most melancholy, There the traveller meets aghast Sheeted Memories of the Past, Shrouded forms that start and sigh As they pass the wanderer by, White-robed forms of friends long given In agony, to the Earth— and Heaven. For the heart whose woes are legion 'Tis a peaceful, soothing region ; For the spirit that walks in shadow 'Tis— oh, 'tis an Eldorado! But the traveller, travelling through it, May not— dare not— openly view it ; Never its mysteries are exposed To the weak human eye unclosed; So wills its King, who hath forbid The uplifting of the fringed lid ; And thus the sad Soul that here passes Beholds it but through darkened glasses. By a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only, Where an Eidolon named Night, On a black throne reigns upright, I have wandered home but newly From this ultimate dim Thule. 310 THE ELZEVUi L1B11ARY. THE CONQUEROR WORM. Lo ! 'tis a gala night Within the lonesome latter years. An angel throng, bewinged, bedight In veils, and drowned in tears, Sit in a theatre to see A play of hopes and fears, "While the orchestra breathes fitfully The ninsic of the spheres. Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mutter and mumble low, And hither and thither fly ; Mere puppets they, who come and go At bidding of vast formless things That shift the scenery to and fro, Flapping from out their Condor wings Invisible Woe ! That motley drama — oh, be sure It shall not be forgot ! With its Phantom chased for evermore, By a crowd that seize it not, Through a circle chat ever returneth in To the selfsame spot, And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot. THE CONQ UKROR WORM. 311 But see, amid the mimic rout A crawling shape intrude ! A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude ! It writhes !— it writhes ! — with mortal pangs The mimes become its food, And the angels sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbrued. Out— out are the lights — out all ! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, And the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, "Man," And its hero the Conqueror Worm. THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OP EDGAE A. POE, In large, handsome type, with several fine illustra- tions, are published by me, in cloth binding, at the price of 40 cents ; also, finely bound in extra cloth, gilt edges ("Presentation Edition"), price 60 cents. HERMANN AND DOROTHEA IN NINE CANTOS. I. KALLIOPE. FATE AND SYMPATHY. " Ne'er have I seen the market and streets so thor- oughly empty! Still as the grave is the town, clear'd out! I verily fancy Fifty at most of all our inhabitants still may be found there. People are so inquisitive ! All are running and racing, Merely to see the sad train of poor fellows driven to exile. Down to the causeway now building, the distance nearly a league is, And they thitherward rush, in the heat and the dust of the noonday. As for me, I had rather not stir from my place just to stare at Worthy and sorrowful fugitives, who, with what goods they can carry, Leaving their own fair land on the further side of the Rhine stream, Over to us are crossing, and wander through the de- lightful Nooks of this fruitful vale, with all its twistings and windings, " Wife, you did right well to bid our son go and meet them, 314 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. Taking with him old linen, and something to eat and to drink too, Just to give to the poor; the rich are bound to befriend them. How he is driving along! How well he holds in the horses ! Then the new little carriage looks very handsome; in- side it Four can easily sit, besides the one on the coachbox. This time he is alone; how easily turns it the corner!" Thus to his wife the host of the Golden Lion discoursed, Sitting at ease in the porch of his house adjoining the market. Then replied as follows the shrewd and sensible host- ess: — " Father, I don't like giving old linen away, for I find it Useful in so many ways, 'tis not to be purchased for money Just when it's wanted. And yet to day I gladly have given Many excellent articles, shirts and covers and suchlike; For I have heard of old people and children walking half -naked. Will you forgive me, too, for having ransacked your presses? That grand dressing-gown, cover 'd with Indian flowers - all over, Made of the finest calico, lined with excellent flannel, I have despatch 'd with the rest, 'tis thin, old, quite out of fashion." But the worthy landlord only smiled, and then an- swer 'd: — " I shall dreadfully miss that ancient calico garment, Genuine Indian stuff ! They 're not to be had any longer. Well! I shall wear it no more. And your poor husband henceforward Always must wear a surtout, I suppose, or common- place jacket, Always must put on his boots; good bye to cap and to slippers!" HEKMANN AND DOROTHEA. 315 '/ See," continued his wife, " a few are already return* ing Who liave seen the procession, which long ago must have pass'd by. See how dusty their shoes are, and how their faces are glowing! Each one carries a handkerchief, wiping the sweat from his forehead. [, for one, wouldn't hurry and worry myself in such weather Merely to see such a sight! I'm certain to hear all about it." &.nd the worthy father, speaking with emphasis, added: — ik Such fine weather seldom lasts through the whole of tlie harvest; And we're bringing the fruit home, just as the hay we brought lately, Perfectly dry; the sky is cJear, no cloud's in the heavens, And the whole day long delicious breezes are blowing. Splendid weather 1 call it ! The corn already too ripe is, And to-morrow begin we to gather the plentiful har- vest." Whilst he was thus discoursing the number of men and of women Crossing the market and going towards home kept ever increasing; And there return'd amongst others, bringing with him his daughters, On the other side of the market, their prosperous neigh- bor, Going full speed to his new built house, the principal merchant, Riding inside an open carriage (in Landau constructed). All the streets were alive; for the town, though small, was well peopled, Many a factory throve there, and many a business also. Long sat the excellent couple under the doorway, ex- changing Many a passing remark on the people who happen'd to pass them. 316 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. Presently thus to her husband exclaim 'd the good- natured hostess: — "See! Yon comes the minister; with him is walking the druggist: They'll be able to give an account of all that has hap- pen' d. What they witness'd, and many a sight I fear which was painful. ' ' Both of them came in a friendly manner, and greeted the couple, Taking their seats on the wooden benches under the doorway, Shaking the dust from their feet, their handkerchiefs using to fan them. Presently, after exchanging reciproc 1 greetings, the druggist Open'd his mouth, and almost peevishly vented his feel- ings: — " What strange creatures men are! They all resemble each other, All take pleasure in staring, when troubles fall on their neighbors. Ev'ry one runs to see the flames destroying a dwelling, Or a poor criminal led in terror and shame to the scaffold. All the town has been out to gaze at the sorrowing exiles, None of them bearing in mind that a like misfortune hereafter, Possibly, almost directly, may happen to be their own portion. I can't pardon such levity; yet 'tis the nature of all men." Thereupon rejoin 'd the noble and excellent pastor, He, the charm of the town, in age scarce more than a stripling: — (He was acquainted with life, and knew the wants of his hearers, Fully convinced of the worth of the Holy Scriptures, whose mission Is to reveal man's fate, his inclinations to fathom; HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 317 He was also well read in the best of secular writings). " I don't like to find fault with any innocent impulse Which in the mind of man Dame Nature has ever im- planted; For what reason and intellect ne'er could accomplish, is often Done by some fortunate, quite irresistible instinct with- in him. If mankind were never by curiosity driven, Say, could they e'er have found out for themselves the wonderful manner Things in the world range in order? For first they Novelty look for, Then, with untiring industry seek to discover the Use- ful, Lastly they yearn for the Good, which makes them noble and worthy. All through their youth frivolity serves as their joyous companion, Hiding the presence of danger, and swiftly effacing the traces Caused by misfortuDe and grief, as soon as their on- slaught is over. Truly the man's to be praised who, as years roll onward, develops Out of such glad disposition an intellect settled and steady, — Who, in good fortune as well as misfortune, strives zeal- ously, nobly; For what is Good he brings forth, replacing whatever is injured. " Then in a friendly voice impatiently spoke thus the hostess: — " Tell us what you have seen; I am eagerly longing to hear it. ' ' Then with emphasis answer *d the druggist:-—" The ter- rible stories Told me to-day will serve for a long time to make me unhappy. Words would fail to describe the manifold pictures of mis'ry. 318 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. Far in the distance saw we the dust, before we descended Down to the meadows; the rising hillocks hid the pro- cession Long from our eyes, and little could we distinguish about it. When, however, we reach 'd the road that winds thro* the valley, Great was the crowd and the noise of the emigrants mix'd with the wagons. We unhappily saw poor fellows passing in numbers, Some of them showing how bitter the sense of their sorrowful flight was, Some with a feeling of joy at saving their lives in a hurry. £>ad was the sight of the manifold goods and chattels pertaining Unto a well -managed house, which the careful owner's accustom'd Each in its proper position to place, and in regular order, Always ready for use, for all are wanted and useful. — Sad was the sight of them now, on many a wagon and barrow Heap'd in thorough confusion, and hurriedly huddled together. Over a cupboard was placed a sieve and a coverlet woollen: Beds in the kneading troughs lay, and linen over the glasses. Ah! and the danger appear 'd to rob the men of their senses, Just as in our great fire of twenty years ago happen'd, When what was worthless they saved, and left all the best things behind them. So on the present occasion with heedless caution they carried Many valueless chattels, o'erlading the cattle and horses, — Common old boards and barrels, a birdcage next to a goose-pen. Women and children were gasping beneath the weight of their bundles, Baskets and tubs full of utterly useless articles bearing. HERMANN AND DOROTHEA, 319 (Man is always unwilling the least of his goods to aban- don.) Thus on its dusty way advanced the crowded proces- sion, All in hopeless confusion. First one, whose cattle were weaker, Fain would slowly advance, while others would eagerly hasten. Then there arose a scream of half -crush 'd women and children, And a lowing of cattle, with yelping of dogs intermin- gled, And a wailing of aged and sick, all sitting and shaking, Ranged in their beds on the top of the wagon too heavily laden. Next some lumbering wheel, push'd out of the track by the pressure, Went to the edge of the roadway: the vehicle fell in the ditch then, Kolling right over, and throwing, in falling, the men who were in it Far in the held, screaming loudly, their persons, how- ever, uninjured. Then the boxes roll'd off and tumbled close to the wagon. Those who saw them falling full surely expected to see them Smashd' to pieces beneath the weight of the chests and the presses. So the wagon lay broken, and those that it carried were helpless, For the rest of the train went on, and hurriedly pass'd them, Thinking only of self, and carried away by the current. So we sped to the spot, and found the sick and the aged Who, when at home and in bed could scarcely endure their sad ailments, Lying there on the ground, all sighing and groaning in anguish, Stifled by clouds of dust, and scorch'd by the fierce sun of summer." 320 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. Then replied in tones of compassion the sensitive land- lord : — " Hermann I trust will find them and give them refresh- ment and clothing. I should unwillingly see them; I grieve at the sight of such sorrow. Touch 'd by the earliest news of the sad extent of the suff'ring, Hastily sent we a trifle from out of our superabundance, Just to comfort a few, and then our minds were more easy. Now let us cease to discourse on such a sorrowful sub- ject, For men's hearts are easily overshadow 'd by terror, And by care, more odious far to me than misfortune. Now let us go to a cooler place, the little back- parlor; There the sun never shines, and the walls are so thick that the hot air Never can enter; and mother shall forthwith bring us a glass each Full of fine Eighty-three, well fitted to drive away trouble. This is a bad place for drinking; the flies will hum round the glasses. " So they all went inside, enjoying themselves in the cool- ness. Then in a well-cut flask the mother carefully brought them Some of that clear, good wine, upon a bright metal waiter, With those greenish rummers, the fittingest goblets for Rhine wine. So the three sat together, around the giistening polish J d Circular large brown table — on massive feet it was planted. Merrily clink 'd together the glasses of host and of pastor, -But the other one thoughtfully held his glass without moving, And in friendly fashion the host thus ask'd him to join them: — HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 321 " Drink, good neighbor, I pray! A merciful God has protected Us in the past from misfortune, and will protect us in future. All must confess that since He thought fit to severely chastise us, When that terrible fire occurr'd, He has constantly bless 'd us, And watch 'd over us constantly, just as man is accus- tom 'd His eye's precious apple to guard, that dearest of mem- bers. Shall He not for the future preserve us, and be our Pro- tector? For 'tis in danger we learn to appreciate duly His Good- ness. This so flourishing town, which He built again from its ashes By the industrious hands of its burghers, and bless'd it so richly, Will He again destroy it, and render their toil unavail- ing?" Cheerfully answer 'd the excellent pastor, in accents of mildness:— " Steadfastly cling to this faith, and cherish such worthy opinions; In good fortune they'll make you prudent, and then in misfortune Well-grounded hopes they'll supply, and furnish you true consolation. " Then continued the host, with thoughts full of man- hood and wisdom: — " Oft have I greeted with wonder the rolling flood of the Rhine stream, When, on my business traveling, I've once more come to its borders. Grand has it ever appear 'd, exalting my feelings and senses; But I could never imagine that soon its beautiful margin Into a wall be turn'd, to keep the French from our country, 322 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. And its wide- spreading bed a ditch to binder and check them. So by Nature we're guarded, we're guarded by valorous Germans, And by the Lord we're guarded; who then would fool- ishly tremble ? Weary the combatants are, and all things indicate peace soon; And when at length the long-expected festival's holden Here in our church, and the bells chime in with the organ in chorus, And the trumpets are blowing, the noble Te Deum up- raising, Then on that self-same day I fain would see, my good pastor, Our dear Hermann kneel with his bride at the altar be- fore you, And the glad festival held through the length and breadth of the country Will henceforward to me be a glad anniversary also! But I am grieved to observe that the youth, who is always so active When he is here at home, abroad is so slow and so timid. Little at any time cares he to mix with the rest of the people; Yes, he even avoids young maidens' society ever, And the frolicsome dance, that great delight of young people." Thus he spake, and then listen 'd. The sound of the stamping of horses Drawing nearer was heard; and then the roll of the car- riage, Which, with impetuous speed, now thunder 'd under the gateway. HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 323 II. TERPSICHORE. HERMANN. Then when into the room the well-built son made his entry, Straightway with piercing glances the minister eyed him intently, And with carefulness watch 'd his looks and the whole of his hearing, With an inquiring eye which easily faces decyphers; Then he smiled, and with cordial words address 'd him as follows: — " How you are changed in appearance, my friend I I never have seen you Half so lively before; your looks are thoroughly cheer- ful. You have return 'd quite joyous and merry. You've doubtless divided All of the presents amongst the poor, their blessings receiving. ' ' Then in calm accents replied the son, with gravity speaking: — " Whether I've laudably acted, I know not; I follow 'd the impulse Of my own heart, as now I'll proceed to describe with exactness. Mother you rummaged so long, in looking over old pieces, And in making your choice, that 'twas late when the bundle was ready, And the wine and the beer were slowly and carefully pack'd up. When I at length emerged at the gate, and came on the highway, Streams of citizens met I returning, with women and children, 324 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. For the train of the exiles had long disappear 'd in the distance. So I quicken 'd my pace, and hastily drove to the village Where I had heard that to night to rest and to sleep they intended. Well, as I went on my way, the newly-made causeway ascending, Suddenly saw I a wagon, of excellent timber con- structed, Drawn by a couple of oxen, the best and the strongest of foreign. Close beside it there walk'd, with sturdy footsteps, a maiden, Guiding the two strong beasts with a long kind of staff, which with skill she Knew how to use, now driving, and now restraining their progress. When the maiden observed me, she quietly came near the horses, And address 'd me as follows: — ' Our usual condition, believe me, Is not so sad as perchance you might judge from our present appearance. I am not yet accustom 'd to ask for alms from a stranger, Who so often but gives, to rid himself of a beggar. But I'm compell'd to speak by necessity. Here on the straw now Lies the lately-confined poor wife of a wealthy land- owner, Whom with much trouble I managed to save with oxen and wagon. We were late in arriving, and scarcely with life she escaped. Now the newly-born child in her arms is lying, all naked, And our friends will be able to give them but little assistance, E'en if in the next village, to which to-night we are going, We should still find them, although I fear they have left it already. If you belong to the neighborhood, any available linen These poor people will deem a most acceptable present. ' HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 325 " Thus she spake, and wearily raised herself the pale patient Up from the straw and gazed upon me, while thus I made answer: — ' Oft doth a heavenly spirit whisper to kind-hearted people, So that they feel the distress o'er their poorer brethren impending; For my mother, your troubles foreboding, gave me a bundle Ready prepared for relieving the wants of those who were naked.' Then I loosen 'd the knots of the cord, and the dressing- gown gave her Which belong' d to my father, and gave her some shirts and some linen, And she thank'd me with joy and said: — ' The fortunate know not How 'tis that miracles happen; we only discover in sor- row God's protecting finger and hand, extended to beckon Good men to good. May your kindness to us by Him be requited. ' And I saw the poor patient joyfully handling the linen, Valuing most of all the soft flannel, the dressing-gown lining. T^hen the maid thus address 'd her: — ' Now let us haste to the village Where our friends are resting, to-night intending to sleep there; There I will straightway attend to whatever for the in- fant is needed. ' Then she saluted me too, her thanks most heartily giving, Drove the oxen, the wagon went on. I linger 'd behind them, Holding my horses rein'd back, divided between two opinions, Whether to hasten ahead, reach the village, the viands distribute, 'Mongst the rest of the people, or give them forthwith to the maiden, 32() HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. So that she might herself divide them amongst them with prudence. Soon I made up my mind, and follow 'd after her softly, Overtook her without delay, and said to her quickly: — 'Maiden, it was not linen alone that my mother pro- vided And in the carriage placed, as clothing to give to the naked, But she added meat, and many an excellent drink too; And I have got quite a stock istow'd away in the boot of the carriage. Well, I have taken a fancy the rest of the gifts to deposit In your hands, and thus fulfil to the best my com- mission : You will divide them with prudence, whilst I my fate am obeying. ' Then the maiden replied: — ' With faithfulness I will dis- tribute All your gifts, and the needy shall surely rejoice at your bounty. ' Thus she spake, and I hastily open'd the boot of the car- riage, Took out the hams (full heavy they were) and took out the bread-stuffs, Flasks of wine and beer, and Landed the whole of them over. Gladly would I have given her more, but empty the boot was. Straightway she pack'd them away at the feet of the patient, and forthwith Started again, whilst I hasten'd back to the town with my horses.' ' Then when Hermann had ended his story, the garrulous neighbor Open'd his mouth and exclaim 'd: — " only deem the man happy Who lives alone in his house in these days of flight and confusion, Who has neither wife nor children cringing beside him ! I feel happy at present; I hate the title of father: Care of children and wife in these days would be a sad drawback. HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 327 Often have I bethought me of flight, and have gather 'd together All that I deem most precious, the antique gold and the jewels Worn by my late dear mother, not one of which has been sold yet. Much indeed is left out, that is r.ot so easily carried. Even the herbs and the roots, collected with plenty of trouble, I should be sorry to lose, though little in value they may be. If the dispenser remains, I shall leave my house in good spirits; If my ready money is saved, and my body, why truly All is saved, for a bachelor easily flies when 'tis needed. " Neighbor," rejoined forthwith young Hermann, with emphasis speaking: — " Altogether I differ, and greatly blame your opinions. Can that man be deem'd worthy, who both in good and ill fortune Thinks alone of himself, and knows not the secret of sharing Sorrows and joys with others, and feel no longing to do so? I could more easily now than before determine to marry; Many an excellent maiden needs a husband's protection, Many a man a cheerful wife, when sorrow's before him. " Smilingly said then the father:--" I'm pleas 'd to hear what you're saying, Words of such wisdom have seldom been utter 'd by you in my presence." Then his good mother broke in, in her turn, with viva- city speaking: — " Son, you are certainly right. We parents set the ex- ample. 'Twas not in time of pleasure that we made choice of each other, And 'twas the saddest of hours that knitted us closely together. 328 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. Monday morning — how well I remember! the very day after That most terrible fire occurr'd which burnt down the borough, Twenty years ago now; the day, like to-day, was a Sunday, Hot and dry was the weather, and little available water. All the inhabitants, clothed in their festival garments, were walking. Scatter 'd about in the inns and the mills of the neigh- boring hamlets. At one end of the town the fire broke out, and the flames ran Hastily all through the streets, impell'd by the draught they created." And the barns were consumed, where all the rich harvest was gather 'd. And all the streets as far as the market; the dwelling house also Of my father hard by was destroy 'd, as likewise was this one. Little indeed could we save; I sat the sorrowful night through On the green of the town, protecting the beds and the boxes. Finally sleep overtook me, and when by the cool breeze of morning Which dies away when the sun arises I was awaken 'd, Saw I the smoke and the glow, and the half -consume J walls and the chimneys. Then my heart was sorely afflicted; but soon in hif glory Rose the sun more brilliant than ever, my spirits reviving. Then in haste I arose, impell'd the site to revisit Where our dwelling had stood, to see if the chickens were living Which I especially loved; for childlike I still was by nature. But when over the ruins of courtyard and house I was climbing, Which still smoked and saw my dwelling destroyed and deserted, You came up on the other side, the ruins exploring. HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 329 You had a horse shut up in his stall; the still-glowing rafters Over it lay, and rubbish, and nought could be seen of the creature. Over against each other we stood, in doubt and in sorrow, For the wall had fallen which used to sever our court- yards; And you grasp 'd my hand, addressing me softly as fol- lows: — ' Lizzy, what here are you doing? Away! Your soles you are burning, For the rubbish is hot, and is scorching my boots which are thicker.' Then you lifted me up, and carried me off through your courtyard. There still stood the gateway before the house, with its arch'd roof, Just as it now is standing, the only thing left remaining. And you set me down and kiss'd me, and I tried to stop you, But you presently said, with kindly words full of mean- ing:— * See, my house is destroy 'd! Stop here and help me to build it, I in return will help to rebuild the house of your father. ' I understood you not, till you sent to my father your mother, And ere long our marriage fulfill'd the troth we soon plighted. Still to this day I remember with pleasure the half -con- sumed rafters, Still do I see the sun in all his majesty rising, For on that day I gain'd my husband; the son of my youth too Gained I during that earliest time of the wild desolation. Therefore commend I you, Hermann, for having with confidence guileless Turn'd towards marriage your thoughts in such a period of mourning, And for daring to woo in war and over the ruins. — " Then the father straightway replied, wiih eagerness speaking: — 330 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. " Sensible is your opinion, and true is also the story Which you have told us, good mother, for so did ev'ry* thing happen. But what is better is better. 'Tis not the fortune of all men All their life and existence to find decided beforehand; All are not doom'd to such troubles as we and others have sufter'd. O, how happy is he whose careful father and mother Have a house ready to give him, which he can success- fully manage! All beginnings are hard, and most so the landlord's pro- fession. Numberless things a man must have, and ev'ry thing daily Dearer becomes, so he needs to scrape together more money. So I am hoping that y u, dear Hermann, will shortly be bringing Home to us a bride possessing an excellent dowry, For a worthy husband deserves a girl who is wealthy, And 'tis a capital thing for the wish'd-for wife to bring with her Plenty of suitable articles stow'd in her baskets and boxes. Not in vain for years does the mother prepare for her daughter Stocks of all kinds of linen, both finest and strongest in texture; Not in vain do god-parents give them presents of silver, • Or the father lay by in his desk a few pieces of money. For she hereafter will gladden, with all her goods and possessions, That happy youth who is destined from out of all others to choose her. Yes! I know how pleasant it makes a house for a young wife, When she finds her own property placed in the rooms and the kitchen, And when she herself has cover'd the bed and the table. Only well-to-do brides should be seen in a house, I con- sider, For a poor one is sure at last to be scorn' d by her hus- band, HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 331 And he'll deem her a jade who as jade first appear 'd with her bundle. Men are always unjust, but moments of love are but transient. Yes, my Hermann, you greatly would cheer the old age of your father If you soon would bring home a daughter-in-law to console me, Out of the neighborhood too, — yes, out of yon dwell- ing, — the green one! Rich is the man, in truth; his trade and his manufac- tures Make him daily richer, for when does a merchant not prosper? He has only three daughters; the whole of his wealth they'll inherit. True the eldest's already engaged; but then there's the second, And the third, who still (not for long) may be had for the asking. Had I been in your place, I should not till this time have waited; Bring home one of the girls, as I brought your mother before you." Then, with modesty, answer 'd the son his impetuous father: — " Truly my wish was, like yours, to marry one of the daughters Of our neighbor. We all, in fact, were brought up to- gether, Sported in youthful days near the fountain adjoining the market, And from the rudeness of boys I often managed to save them. But those days have long pass'd; the maidens grew up, and with reason Stop now at home and avoid the rougher pastimes of childhood. Well brought up with a vengeance they are! To please you, I sometimes Went to visit them, just for the sake of olden ac- quaintance; 332 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. But I was never much pleased at holding intercourse with them, For they were always finding fault, and I had to bear it: First my coat was too long, the cloth too coarse, and the color Far too common, my hair was cut and curl'd very badly. I at last was thinking of dressing myself like the shop- boys, Who are accustom 'd on Sundays to show off their per- sons up yonder, And round whose coats in summer half- silken tatters are hanging. But ere long 1 discover 'd they only intended to fool me; This was very annoying, my pride was offended, but more still Felt I deeply wounded that they so mistook the good feelings Which I cherish'd towards them, especially Minnie, the youngest. Well, I went last Easter, politely to pay them a visit, And I wore the new coat now hanging up in the closet, And was frizzled and curl'd, like all the rest of the youngsters. When I enter 'd, they titter 'd; but that didn't very much matter. Minnie sat at the piano, the father was present amongst them, Pleased with his daughter's singing, and quite in a jocular humor. Little could I understand of the words in the songs she was singing, But I constantly heard of Pamina, and then of Tamino,* And I fain would express my opinion; so when she had ended, I ask'd questions respecting the text, and who were the persons. All weie silent and smiled; but presently answer'd the father; — * Did you e'er happen, my friend, to hear of Eve or of Adam?' * Characters in Mozart's Zauberflbte. HERMANN AND DOROTHEA, 833 Then no longer restrain' d they themselves, the girls burst out laughing, All the boys laugh 'd loudly, the old man 's sides appear 'd splitting. In my confusion I let my hat fall down, and the "titt 'ring Lasted all the time the singing and playing continued. Then I hasten'd home ashamed and full of vexation, Hung up my coat in the closet, and put my hair in dis- order With my fingers, and swore ne'er again to cross o'er their threshold. And I'm sure I was right; for they are all vain and un- loving. And I hear they're so rude as to give me the nickname Tamino." Then the mother rejoin'd: — " You're wrong, dear Her- mann, to harbor Angry feelings against the chilren, for they are but children, Minnie's an excellent girl, and has a tenderness for you; Lately she ask'd how you were. Indeed, I wish you would choose her ! ' ' Then the son thoughtfully answer 'd: — " I know not why, but the fact is My annoyance has graven itself in my mind, and here- after I could not bear at the piano to see her, or list to her singing." But the father sprang up, and said, in words full of anger: — " Little comfort you give me, in truth! I always have said it, When you took pleasure in horses, and cared for noth- ing but field work; That which the servants of prosperous people perform as their duty, You yourself do; meanwhile the father his son must dispense with, Who in his honor was wont to court the rest of the townsfolk. 334 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. Thus with empty hopes your mother early deceived me, When your reading, and writing, and learning at school ne'er succeeded Like the rest of the hoys, and so you were always the lowest. This all comes from a youth not^possessing a due sense of honor, And not having the spirit to try to raise his position. Had my father but cared for me, as I have for you, sir, Sent me to school betimes, and given me proper in- structors, I should not merely have been the host of the famed Golden Lion. " But the son arose, and approach 'd the doorway in silence, Slowly, and making no noise; but then the father in dudgeon After him shouted: — " Be off! I know you're an obsti- nate fellow ! Go and look after the business; else I shall scold you severely; But don't fancy I'll ever allow you to bring home in triumph As my daughter-in-law any boorish impudent hussy. Long have I lived in the world, and know how to manage most people, Know how to entertain ladies and gentlemen, so that they leave me In good humor, and know how to flatter a stranger discreetly. But my daughter-in-law must have useful qualities also, And be able to soften my manifold cares and vexations. She must also play on the piano, that all the best people Here in the town may take pleasure in often coming to see us, As in the house of our neighbor the merchant happens each Sunday. ' ' Softly the son at these words raised the latch, and left the apartment. HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 335 III. THALIA. THE BURGHERS. Thus did the prudent son escape from the hot conver- sation, But the lather continued precisely as he had begun it: — " What is not in a man can never come out of him, surely ! Never, I fear, shall I see fulfill'd my dearest of wishes, That my son should be unlike his father, but better. What would be the fate of a house or town, if its inmates Did not all take pride in preserving, renewing, improv- ing, As we are taught by the age, and by the wisdom of strangers? Man is not born to spring out of the ground, just like a mere mushroom, And to rot away soon in the very place that produced him! Leaving behind him no trace of what he has done in his lifetime. One can judge by the look of a house of the taste of its master, As on ent'ring a town, one can judge the authorities' fitness. For where the towers and walls are falling, where in the ditches Dirt is collected, and dirt in every street is seen lying, Where the stones come out of their groove, and are not replaced there, Where the beams are rotting, and vainly the houses are waiting New supports; that town is sure to be wretchedly man- aged. For where order and cleanliness reign not supreme in high places, 336 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. Then to dirt and delay the citizens soon get accustom'd, Just as the beggar's accustom'd to wear his clothes full of tatters. Therefore I often have wish'd that Hermann would start on his travels Ere he's much older, and visit at any rate Strasburg and Frankfort, And that pleasant town, Mannheim, so evenly built and so cheerful. He who has seen such large and cleanly cities rests never Till his own native town, however small he sees better 'd. Do not all strangers who visit us praise our well- mended gateways, And the well-whited tower, the church so neatly repair 'd too? Do not all praise our pavements? Our well -arranged cover'd-in conduits, Always well furnish 'd with water, utility blending with safety, So that a fire, whenever it happens, is straightway extinguish'd, — Is not this the result of that conflagration so dreadful? Six times in Council I superintended the town's works, receiving Hearty thanks and assistance from every well-disposed burgher. How I design' d, follow 'd up and ensured the comple- tion of measures Worthy men had projected, and afterwards left all unfinish'd! Finally, every man in Council took pleasure in working. All put forth their exertions, and now they have finally settled That new highway to make, which will join our town with the main road. But I am greatly afraid that the young generation won't act thus; Some on the one hand think only of pleasure and trum- pery dresses, Others won't stir out of doors, and pass all their time by the fireside, And our Hermann, I fear, will always be one of this last sort. ' ' HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 337 Forthwith to him replied the excellent sensible mother: — tc Father, you're always unjust whenever you speak of your son, and That is the least likely way to obtain your wishes' fulfil ment; For we cannot fashion our children after our fancy v We must have them and love them, as God has given them to us, Bring them up for the best, and let each do as he listeth. One has one kind of gift, another possesses another, Each one employs them, and each in turn in his separate fashion Good and happy becomes. My Hermann shall not be upbraided, For I know that he well deserves the wealth he'll inherit; He'll be an excellent landlord, a pattern to burghers and peasants, And, as I clearly foresee, by no means the last in the Council. But with your blame and reproaches, you daily dis- hearten him sadly, As you have done just now, and make the poor fellow unhappy. " Then she left the apartment, and after her son hasten 'd quickly, Hoping somewhere to find him, and with her words of affection Gladden his heart, for he, the excellent son, well de- served it. Smilingly, when she had closed the door, continued the father: — " What a" wonderful race of people are women and children ! All of them fam would do whatever pleases their fancy, And we're only allow 'd to praise them and flatter them freely. Once for all there's truth in the ancient proverb which tells us: He who moves not forward, goes backward ! a capital saying!" 338 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. Speaking with much circumspection, the druggist made answer as follows: — " What you say, good neiglrbor, is certainly true, and my plan is Always to think of improvement, provided tho' new, 'tis not costly. But what avails it ia truth, unless one has plenty of money, Active and fussy to be, improving both inside and out- side? Sadly confined are the means of a burgher; e'en when he knows it. Little that's good he is able to do, his purse is too narrow, And the sum wanted too great; and so he is always prevented. I have had plenty of schemes! but then I was terribly frighten 'd At the expense, especially during a time of such danger. Long had my house smiled upon me, decked out in modish exterior, Long had my windows with Large panes of glass resplendently glitter' d. Who can compete with a merchant, however, who, rolling in riches, Also knows the manner in which what is best can be purchased? Only look at the house up yonder, the new one! how handsome Looks the stucco of those white scrolls on the green- color 'd panels! Large are the plates of the windows; how shining and "brilliant the panes are, Quite eclipsing the rest of the houses that stand in the market ! Yet at the time of the tire, our two were by far the most handsome, Mine at the sign of the Angel, and yours at the old Golden Lion. Then my garden was famous throughout the whole country, and strangers Used to stop as they pass'd and peep through my red- color 'd palings At my beggars of stone, and at my dwarfs,, which wer' painted. HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 339 He to whom I gave coffee inside my beautiful grotto, Which, aias! is cover 'd with dust and tumbling to pieces, Used to rejoice in the color 'd glimmering light of the mussels, Ranged in natural order around it and connoisseurs even Used with dazzled eyes to gaze at the spars and the coral. Then, in the drawing-room, people look'd with delight on the painting, Where the prim ladies and gentlemen walked in the garden demurely, And with pointed lingers presented the flowers, and held them. Ah, if only such things were now to be seen! Little care I Now to go out; for everything needs to be alter'd and tasteful, As it is call'd; and white are the benches of wood and the palings; All things are simple and plain; and neither carving nor gilding Now are employ 'd, and foreign timber is now all the fashion. I should be only too pleased to possess some novelty also, So as to march with the times, and my household furni- ture alter. But we all are afraid to make the least alteration, For who is able to pay the present charges of workmen? Lately a fancy possess 'd me the angel Michael, whose figure Hangs up over my shop, to treat to a new coat of gild- ing, And the terrible Dragon, who round his feet is entwin- ing; But I have left him all brown; as he is; for the cost quite alarm 'd me. ' ' 340 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. IV. EUTERPE. MOTHER AND SON. Thus the men discoursed together; and meanwhile the mother Went in search of her son, — at first in front of the dwelling On the bench of stone, for he was accustom 'd to sit there. When she found him not there, she went to look in the stable, Thinking perchance he was feeding his splendid horses, the stallions, Which he had bought when foals, and which he entrusted to no one. But the servant inform'd her that h3 had gone to the garden Then she Dimbly strode across the long double court- yard, Left the stables behind, and the barns all made of good timber, Enter 'd the garden which stretch'd far away to the walls of the borough, Walk'd across it, rejoicing to see how all things were growing, Carefully straight en' d the props, on which the apple' tree's branches, Heavily loaded, reposed, and the weighty boughs of the pear-tree, Took a few caterpillars from off the strong-sprouting cabbage; For a bustling woman is never idle one moment. In this manner she came to the end of the long-reaching garden, Where was the the arbor all cover'd with woodbine*. she found not her son there, Nor was he to be seen in any part of the garden. HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 341 But she found on the latch the door which out of the arbor Through the wall of the town had been made by special permission During their ancestor's time, the worthy old burgomaster. So she easily stepp'd across the dry ditch at the spot where On the highway abutted their well-enclosed excellent vineyard, Rising steeply upwards, its face tow'rd the sun turn'd directly. Up the hill she proceeded, rejoicing, as farther she mounted, At the size of the grapes, which scarcely were hid by the foliage. Shady and well-cover 'd in, the middle walk at the top was, Which was ascended by steps of rough flat pieces con- structed. And within it were hanging fine chasselas and musca- tels also, And a reddish- blue grape, of quite an exceptional bigness, All with carefulness planted, to give to their guests after dinner. But with separate stems the rest of the vineyard was planted, Smaller grapes producing, from which the finest wine made is. So she constantly mounted, enjoying in prospect the' autumn, And the festal day when the neighborhood met with rejoicing, Picking and treading the grapes, and putting the must in the wine vats, Every corner and nook resounding at night with the fireworks Blazing and cracking away, due honor to pay to the harvest. But she uneasy became, when she in vain had been calling Twice and three times her son, and when the sole answer that reach'd her Came from the garrulous echo which out of the town towers issued. 342 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. Strange it appear'd to have to seek him; he uever went far off, (As he before had told her) in order to ward off all sorrow From his dear mother, and her forebodings of coming disaster. But she still was expecting upon the highway to fin (J him, For the doors at the bottom, like those at the top, of the vineyard Stood wide open; and so at length she enter 'd the broad field Which, with its spreading expanse, o'er the whole of the hill's back extended. On their own property still she proceeded, greatly rejoicing At their own crops, and at the corn which nodded so bravely, Over the whole of the field in golden majesty waving. Then on the border between the fields, she follow 'd the footpath, Keeping her eye on the pear-tree fix'd, the big one, which standing Perch 'd by itself on the top of the hill, their property bounded. Who had planted it, no one knew; throughout the whole country Far and wide was it visible; noted also its fruit was. Under its shadow the reaper ate his dinner at noon- day, And the herdsman was wont to lie, when tending his cattle. Benches made of rough stones and of turf were placed all about it. And she was not mistaken; there sat her Hermann and rested; On his arm he was leaning, and seem'd to be looking 'cross country Tow'rds the mountains beyond; his back was turn'd to his mother. Softly creeping up, she lightly tapp'd on his shoulder; And he hastily turn'd; she saw that his eyes full of tears were. HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 343 ''Mother," he said in confusion: — "You greatly sur- prise me!" and quickly Wiped he away his tears, the noble and sensitive young- ster. " What! You are weeping, my son?" the startled mother continued: — " That is indeed unlike you! I never before saw you crying! Say, what has sadden'd your heart? What drives you to sit here all lonely Under the shade of the pear-tree? What is it that makes you unhappy ?" Then the excellent youth collected himself, and made answer: — " Truly that man can have no heart, but a bosom of iron, Who no sympathy feels for the wants of unfortunate exiles; He has no sense in his head who, in times of such deep tribulation, Has no concern for himself or for his country 's well- being. What I to-day have seen and heard, has stirred up my feelings; Well, I have come up here, and seen the beautiful, spreading Landscape, which in fruitful hills to our sight is pre- sented, — Seen the golden fruit of the sheaves all nodding together, And a plentiful crop of fruit, full garners foreboding. But, alas, how near is the foe! By the Rhine's flowing waters We are protected indeed; but what are rivers and mountains To such a terrible nation, which hurries along like a tempest ! For they summon together the young and the old from all quarters, Rushing wildly along, while the multitude little is caring Even for death; when one falls, his place is straight fill'd by another. 344 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. Ah! and can Germans dare to remain at home in their dwellings, Thinking perchance to escape f rom the widely- threat 'n- ing disaster? Dearest mother, I tell you that I to-day am quite sorry That I was lately excused, when they selected the fighters Out of the townsfolk. 'Tis true I'm an only son, and moreover Large is our inn, and our business also is very important; Were it not better however for me to fight in the van- guard On the frontier, than here to await disaster and bondage? Yes, my spirit has told me, and in my innermost bosom Feel I courage and longing to live and die for my country, And to others to set an example worthy to follow. Oh, of a truth, if the strength of the German youths was collected On the frontier, all bound by a vow not to yield to the stranger, He on our noble soil should never set foot, or be able Under our eyes to consume the fruits of the land, or to issue Orders unto our men, or despoil our women and maidens! See, good mother, within my inmost heart I've deter- mined Soon and straightway to do what seems to me right and becoming; For the man who thinks long, not always chooses what best is. See, I will not return to the house, but will go" from here straightway Into the town, and there will place at the fighters' dis- posal This stout arm and this heart, to serve, as I best can, my country. Then let my father say whether feelings of honor are stirring In my bosom or not, and whether I yearn to mount upwards " HERMANN AND DOROTHEA, 345 Then with significance answer'd his good and sensible mother, Shedding tears in silence, which easily rose in her eye- lids:— " Son, what has wrought so strange a change in your temper and feeling, That you freely and openly speak to your mother no longer, As you till yesterday did, nor tell her truly your wishes? If another had heard you speaking, he doubtless would praise you Highly, and deem your new resolution as worthy of honor, Being deceived by your words, and by your manner of speaking. I however can only blame you. I know you much, better. You are concealing your heart, and very diff 'rent your thoughts are; For I am sure you care not at all for drum and for trum- pet, Nor, to please the maidens, care you to wear regi- mentals. For, though brave you may be, and gallant, your proper vocation Is to remain at home, the property quietly watching. Therefore tell me truly: What means this sudden de- cision?" Earnestly answer'd the son: — "You are wrong, dear mother, one day is Unlike another. The youth soon ripens into his man- hood. Of ttimes he ripens better to action in silence, than living That tumultuous noisy life which ruins so many. And though silent I have been, and am, a heart has been fashion 'd Inside my bosom, which hates whatever unfair and unjust is, And I am able right well to discriminate secular matters. Work moreover my arms and my feet has mightily strengthen 'd. All that 1 tell you is true; I boldly venture to say so. 346 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. And yet, mother, you blame me with reason; you've caught me employing Words that are only half true, and that serve to conceal my true feelings. For I must need confess, it is not the advent of danger Calls me away from my father's house, nor a resolute purpose Useful to he to my country, and dreaded to be by the foeman. Words alone it was that I utter'd, — words only in- tended Those deep feelings to hide which within my breast are contending. And now leave me, my mother! For as in my bosom I cherish Wishes that are but vain, my life will be to no purpose. For I know that the Unit who makes a self-sacrifice, only Injures himself, unless all endeavor the Whole to accom- plish. ' ' " Now continue," replied forthwith his sensible mother: — " Tell me all that has happen 'd, the least as well as the greatest; Men are always hast}', and only remember the last thing, And the hasty are easily forced from the road by ob- structions. But a woman is skilful, and full of resources, and scorns not Bye -roads to traverse when needed, well-skill' d to accom- plish her purpose. Tell me then all, and why you are stirr'd by such vio- lent feelings More than I ever have seen, while the blood is boiling within you, And from your eyes the tears against your will fain would fall now." Then the youth gave way to his sorrow, and burst into weeping, HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 347 Weeping aloud on the breast of his mother, and softly replying:— " Truly, my father's words to-day have wounded me sadly, Never have I deserved at his hands such treatment, — no, never! For to honor my parents was always my wish from my childhood, jSTo one ever appear' d so prudent and wise as my parents, Who in the darker days of childhood carefully watch'd me. Much indeed it has been my lot to endure from my playmates, When with their knavish pranks they used to embitter my temper, pften I little suspected the tricks they were playing upon me: But if they happen'd to ridicule Father, when ever on / Sundays Out of church he came with his slow deliberate footsteps, If they laugh 'd at the strings of his cap, and his dress- ing-gown's flowers, W^hich he in stately wise wore, and to-day at length has discarded, Then in a fury I clench 'd my fist, and, storming and raging, Fell upon them and hit and struck with terrible on- slaught, Heedless where my blows fell. With bleeding noses they hallooed, And could scarcely escape from the force of my blows and my kicking. Then, as in years 1 advanced, I had much to endure from my father, Who, in default of others to blame, would often abuse me, When at the Council's last sitting his anger perchance was excited, And I the penalty paid of the squabbles and strife of his colleagues. You yourself have oft pitied me; I endured it with patience, 348 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. Always rememb'ring the much-to-be honor 'd kindness of parents, Whose only thought is to swell for our sakes their goods and possessions, And who deprive themselves of much, to save for their children. But, alas, not saving alone for enjoyment hereafter, Constitutes happiness, no, not heaps of goid or of silver, Neither field upon field, however compact the estate be. For the father grows old, and his son at the same time grows older, Feeling no joy in To-day, and full of care for To-mor- row Now look down from this height, and see how beau- teous before us Lies the fair rich expanse, with vineyard and gardens at bottom; There are the stables and barns, and the rest of the pro- perty likewise; x There I also descry the back of our house, in the gables Of the roof may be seen the window of my small apart- ment. When I remember the time when I used to look out for the moon there Half through the night, or perchance at morning awaited the sunrise, When with but few hours of healthy sleep I was fully contented, Ah, how lonely do all things appear! My chamber, the court, and Garden, the beautiful field which spreads itself over the hillside; All appears but a desert to me; I still am unmarried!" Then his good mother answer' d his speech in a sensible manner: — " Son, your wish to be able to lead your bride to her chamber, Turning the night to the dearest and happiest half of your lifetime, Making your work by day more truly free and unfet- ter'd, HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 349 Cannot be greater than that of jour father and mother. We always Urged you, — commanded, I even might say, — to choose some fair maiden. But I know full well, and my heart has told me already : — If the right hour arrives not, or if the right maiden appears not InstantJy when they are sought for, man's choice is thrown in confusion, And he is driven by fear to seize what is counterfeit only. If I may tell you, my son, your choice already is taken, For your heart is smitten, and sensitive more than is usual. Answer me plainly, then, for my spirit already has told me: She who now you have chosen is that p )or emigrant maiden!" " Yes, dear mother, you 're right!'' the son with vivacity answer'd: — " Yes, it is she! And unles this very day I conduct her Home as my bride, she will go on her way and escape me forever, In the confusion of war, and in moving backwards and forwards. Mother, then before my eyes, will in vain be unfolded All our rich estate, and each year henceforward be fruitful. Yes, the familiar house and the garden will be my aver- sion. Ah, and the love of my mother no comfort will give to my sorrow, For I feel that by Love each former bond must be loosen'd, When her own bonds she knits; 'tis not the maiden alone who Leaves her father and mother behind, when she follows her husband.. Bo it is with the youth; no more he knows mother and father, 350 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. When he beholds the maiden, the only beloved one, ap- proaching. Therefore let me go hence, to where desperation may- lead me, For my father already has spoken in words of decision, And his house no longer is mine, if he shuts out the maiden Whom alone I would fain take home as my bride from henceforward. ' ' Then the excellent sensible mother answer'd with quick- ness: — " Men are precisely like rocks when they stand opposed to each other! Proud and unyielding, the one will never draw near to the other. Neither will suffer his tongue to utter the first friendly accent. Therefore I tell you, my son, a hope still exists in my bosom. If she is worthy and good, he will give his consent to your marriage, Poor though she be, and although with disdain he refused you the poor thing. For in his hot-headed fashion he utters many expres- sions Which he never intends; and so will accept the Refused One. But he requires kind words, and has a right to require them, For your father he is; his anger is all after dinner, When he more eagerly speaks, and questions the reasons of others, Meaning but little thereby; the wine then excites all the vigor Of his impetuous will, and prevents him from giving due weight to Other people's opinions; he hears and he feels his own only. But when evening arrives, the tone of the many dis- courses Which his friends and himself hold together, is very much alter 'd. HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 351 Milder, becomes he as soon as his liquor's effects have passed over, And he feels the injustice his eagerness did unto others Come, we will venture at once! Success the reward is of boldness, And we have need of the friends vr ho now have assem- bled around him. Msot of all we shall want the help of our excellent pastor. ' ' Thus she eagerly spoke, and leaving the stone that she sat on, Also lifted her son from his seat. He willingly follow 'd, And they descended in silence, revolving the weighty proposal V. POLYHYMNIA. THE COSMOPOLITE. But the Three, as before were still sitting and talking together, With the landlord, the worthy divine, and also the drug- gist, And their conversation still concern'd the same subject, Which in every form they had long been discussing to- gether. Full of noble thoughts, the excellent pastor continued: " I can't contradict you. I know 'tis the duty of mor- tals Ever to strive for improvement; and, as we may see, they strive also Ever for that which is higher, at least what is new they seek after, But don't hurry too fasti For combined with these feel ings, kind Nature Also has given us pleasure in dwelling on that which is ancient, 352 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. And in clinging to that to which we have long been accustom 'd. Each situation is good that's accordant to nature and reason. Many things man desires, and yet he has need of but little; For but short are the days, and confined is the lot of a mortal. I can never blame the man who, active and restless, Hurries along, and explores each corner of earth and the ocean Boldly and carefully, while he rejoices at seeing the profits Which round him and his family gather themselves in abundance. But I also duly esteem the peaceable burgher, Who with silent steps his paternal inheritance paces, And watches over the earth, the seasons carefully noting. 'Tis not every year that he finds his property alter'd; Newly-planted trees cannot stretch out their arms to- w'rds the heavens All in a moment, adorn' d with beautiful buds in abun- dance. No, a man has need of patience, he also has need of Pure unruffled tranquil thoughts, and an intellect honest, For to the nourishing earth few seeds at a time he entrust eth, Few are the creatures he keeps at a time, with a view to their breeding, For what is Useful alone remains the first thought of his lifetime. Happy the man to whom Nature a mind thus attuned may have given ! Tis by him that we all are fed. And happy the towns- man Jf the small town who unites the vocations of town and of country. / \e is exempt from the pressure bv which the poor farmer is worried, Is not perplex 'd by the citizens ' cares and soaring am- bition, HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 353 Who, with limited means, — especially women and maidens, — Think of nothing but aping the ways of the great and the wealthy, You should therefore bless your son's disposition so peaceful, And the like-minded wife whom we soon may expect- him to marry. ' ' Thus he spoke. At that moment the mother and son stood before them. By the hand she lead him and placed him in front of her husband: — " Father," she said, " how often have we, when talking together, Thought of that joyful day in the future, when Her- mann, selecting After long waiting his bride, at length would make us both happy! All kinds of projects we form'd; designing first one, then another Girl as his wife, as we talk'd in the manner that parents delight in. Now the day has arrived; and now has his bride beei? conducted Hither and shown him by Heaven; his heart at length has decided. Were we not always saying that he should choose for himself, and Were you not lately wishing that he might -feel for a maiden Warm and heart-felt emotions? And now has arrived the right moment ! Yes, he has felt and has chosen, and like a man has de- cided. That fair maiden it is, the Stranger whom he encounter 'd. Give her him; else he'll remain — he has sworn it — un- married for ever." And the son added himself: — " My father, O give herl My heart has Chosen purely and truly; she'll make you an excellent dau^hte:\" B54 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. But the father was silent. Then suddenly rose the good pastor, And address'd him as follows: " One single moment's decisive Both of the life of a man, and of the whole of his Fu- ture. After lengthened reflection, each resolution made by him Is but the work of a moment; the prudent alone seized the right one. Nothing more dangerous is, in making a choice, than revolving First this point and then that, and so confusing the feelings. Pure is Hermann's mind; from his youth I have known him; he never, Even in boyhood, was wont to extend his hand hither and thither. What he desired was suitable to him; he held to it firmly. Be not astonish 'd and scared, because there appears on a sudden What you so long have desired. Tis true the appear ance at present Bears not the shape of the wish, as you in your mind had conceived it. For our wishes conceal the thing that we wished for; our gifts too Come from above upon us, each clad in its own proper figure Do not now mistake the maiden who has succeeded First iu touching the heart of your good wise son, whom you love so. Happy is he who is able to clasp the hand of his first love, And whose dearest wish is not doom'd to pine in his bosom! Yes, I can see by his face, already his fate is decided; True aifection converts the youth to a man in a moment. He little changeable is; I fear me, if this you deny him, All the fairest years of his life will be changed into sor- row.' J HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 355 Then in prudent fashion the druggist, who long had been wanting His opinion to give, rejoin'd in the following manner:—- ''This is just a case when the middle course is the wisest! ' Hasten slowly, ' you know, was the motto of Caesar Augustus. I am always ready to be of use to my neighbors, And to turn to their profit what little wits I can boast of. Youth especially needs the guidance of those who are older. Let me then depart; I fain would prove her, that maiden, And will examine the people 'mongst whom she lives, and who know her. I am not soon deceived; I know how to rate their opin- ions. ' ' Then forthwith replied the son, with eagerness speak- ing:— "Do so, neighbor, and go, and make your inquiries. However, I should greatly prefer that our friend, the pastor, went with you; Two such excellent men are witnesses none can find fault with. O, my father! the maiden no vagabond is, I assure you, No mere adventurer, wand 'ring about all over the country. And deceiving the inexperienced youths with her cun- ning; No! the harsh destiny link'd with this war, so destruc- tive of all things, Which is destroying the world, and already has wholly uprooted Many a time-honor 'd fabric, has driven the poor thing k to exile. Are not brave men of noble birth now wand 'ring in mis'ry? Princes are fleeing disguised, and monarchs in banish ment living. Ah, and she also herself, the best of her sisters, is driven Out of her native land; but her own misfortunes for- getting, 356 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. Others she seeks to console, and, though helpless, is also most helpful. Great are the woes and distress which over the earth *g face are brooding, But may happiness not be evoked from out of this sor- row ? May not I, in the arms of my bride, the wife I have chosen, Even rejoice at the war, as you at the great conflagra- tion?" Then replied the father, and open'd his mouth with im- portance: — " Strangely indeed, my son, has your tongue been sud- denly loosen 'd, Which for years has stuck in your mouth, and moved there but rarely! I to-day must experience that which threatens each father: How the ardent will of a son a too-gentle mother Willingly favors, whilst each neighbor is ready to back him, Only provided it be at the cost of a father or husband! But what use would it be to resist so many together? For I see that defiance and tears will otherwise greet me. Go and prove her, and in God's name then hasten to bring her Home as my daughter; if not, he must think no more of the maiden. ' ' Thus spake the father. The son exclaim'd with jubilant gesture:— " Ere the ev'ning arrives, you shall have the dearest of daughters, Such as the man desires whose bosom is govern 'd by prudence; And I venture to think the good creature is fortunate also. Yes, she will ever be grateful that I her father and mother Have restored her -in you, as sensible children would wish it. But I will loiter no longer; I'll straightway harness the horses, HERMANN AND DOROTHEA, 357 And conduct our friends on the traces of her whom I love so. Leave the men to themselves and their own intuitive wisdom, And be guided alone by their decision, — I swear it, — And not see the maiden again, until she my own is." Then he left the house; meanwhile the others were eagerly Settling many a point, and the weighty matter debat- ing. Hermann sped to the stable forthwith, where the spir- ited stallions Tranquilly stood and with eagerness swallow 'd the pure oats before them, And the well-dried hay, which was cut from the best of their meadows. Then in eager haste in their mouths the shining bits placed he, Quickly drew the harness through the well-plated buckles. And then fasten 'd the long broad reins in proper posL tion, Led the horses out in the yard, where already the car- riage, Easily moved along by its pole, had been push'd by the servant Then they restrain'd the impetuous strength of the fast- moving horses, Fastening both with neat-looking ropes to the bar of the carriage. Hermann seized his whip, took his seat, and drove to the gateway. When in the roomy carriage his friends had taken their places, 1 Swiftly he drove away, and left the pavement behind them, Left behind the walls of the town and the clean-looking towers. Thus sped Hermann along, till he reach 'd the familiar highway, Not delaying a moment, and galloping uphill and down- hill. 358 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. When however at length the village steeple descried he. And not far away lay the houses surrounded by gardens, He began to think it was time to hold in the horses. By the time-honor 'd gloom of noble lime-trees o'er- shadow'd, Which for many a century past on the spot had been rooted, Stood there a green and spreading grass-plot in front of the village, Cover 'd with turf, for the peasants and neighboring- townsmen a playground. Scoop 'd out under the trees, to no great depth, stood a fountain. On descending the steps, some benches of stone might be seen there, Ranged all round the spring, which ceaselessly well'd forth its waters, Cleanly, enlcosed by a low wall all round, and conven- ient to draw from. Hermann then determined beneath the shadow his horses With the carriage to stop. He did so, and spoke then as follows: — " Now, my friends, get down, and go by yourselves to discover Whether the maiden is worthy to have the hand which I offer. I am convinced that she is; and you'll bring me no new or strange story: Had I to manage alone, I would straightway go off to the village, And in few words should my fate by the charming creature be settled.. Her you will easily recognize 'mongst all the rest of the people, For her appearance is altogether unlike that of others. But I will now describe the modest dress she is wear- ing:— First a bodice red her well-arch 'd bosom upraises, Prettily tied, while black are the stays fitting closely around her. Then the seams of the ruff she has carefully plaited and folded, HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 359 Which, with modest grace, her chin so round is encir- cling. Free and joyously rises her head with its elegant oval, Strongly round bodkins of silver her back-hair is many times twisted; Her blue well-plaited gown begins from under her bodice, And as she walks envelopes her well-turn'd ankles com- pletely. But I have one thing to say, and this must expressly entreat you: Do not speak to the maiden, and let not your scheme be discover 'd. But inquire of others, and hearken to all that they tell you, When you have learnt enough to satisfy father and mother, Then return to me straight, and we'll settle future pro- ceedings. This is the plan which I have matured, while driving you hither. ' ' Thus he spoke, and the friends forthwith went on to the village, Where, in gardens and barns and houses, the multitude crowded; All along the broad road the numberless carts were col- lected, Men were feeding the lowing cattle and feeding the horses. Women on every hedge the linen were carefully drying, # Whilst the children in glee were splashing about in the streamlet. Forcing their way through the wagons, and past the men and the cattle, Walk'd the ambassador spies, looking well to the right- hand and lefthand, Hoping somewhere to see the form of the well-described maiden; But wherever they look'd, no trace of the girl they dis- cover 'd. 360 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. Presently denser became the crowd. Round some of the wagons Men in a passion were quarrelling, women also were screaming. Then of a sudden approach 'd an aged man with firm footstep Marching straight up to the fighters; and forthwith was, hush'd the contention, When he bade them be still, and with fatherly earnest- ness threaten 'd. /'Are we not yet," he exclainrd, "by misfortune so i knitted together, As to have learnt at length the art of reciprocal patience And toleration, though each cannot measure the actions of others? Prosperous men indeed may quarrel! Will sorrow not teach you How no longer as formerly you should quarrel with brethren ? Each should give way to each other, when treading the soil of the stranger, And, as you hope for mercy yourselves, you should share your possessions. ' ' Thus the man address 'd them, and ail were silent. In peaceful Humor the reconciled men iook'd after their cattle and wagons. When the pastor heard the man discourse in this fash- ion, And the foreign magistrate's peaceful nature discov- ered, He approach 'd him in turn, an<} used this significant language: — " Truly, Father, when nations are living in days of good fortune. Drawing their food from the earth, which gladly opens its treasures, And its wish'd-for gifts each year and each month is renewing. Then all matters go smoothly; each thinks himself far the wisest, And the best, and so they exist by the side of each other, HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 30 1 And the most sensible man no better than others is reckon' d For the world moves on, as if by itself and in silence. But when distress unsettles our usual manner of living, Pulls down each time-honor'd fabric, and roots up the seed in our gardens, Drives the man and his wife far away from the home they delight in, Hurries them off in confusion through days and nights full of anguish, Ah! then look we around in search of the man who is wisest, And no longer in vain he utters his words full of wis- dom. Tell me whether you be these fugitives' magistrate, Father, Over whose minds you appear to possess such an influ- ence soothing? Aye, to-day I could deem you one of the leaders of old time, Who through wastes and through deserts conducted the wandering people; I could imagine 'twas Joshua I am addressing, or Moses." Then, with solemn looks the magistrate anwer'd as fol- lows: — " Truly the present times resemble the strangest of old times, Which are preserved in the pages of history, sacred or common. He in these days who has lived to-day and yesterday only, Many a year has lived, events so crowd on each other. When I reflect back a little, a grey old age I could fancy On my head to be lying, and yet my strength is still active. Yes, we people in truth may liken ourselves to those others Unto whom in a fiery bush appear 'd, in a solemn Moment, the Lord our God; in fire and clouds tee be- hold him." 362 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. When the pastor would fain continue to speak on this subject, And was anxious to learn the fate of the man and his party, Quickly into his ear his companion secretly whisper'd: — "Speak for a time with the magistrate, turning your talk on the maiden, Whilst I wander about, endeav'ring to find her. Directly I am successful, I'll join you again.' ' Then nodded the pastor, And the spy went to seek her, in barns and through hedges and gardens. VI. KLIO. THE AGE. When the pastor ask'd the foreign magistrate questions, What the people had suffer'd, how long from their homes they had wander 'd, Then the man replied: — " By no means short are our sorrows, For we have drunk the bitters of many a long year to- gether, All the more dreadful, because our fairest hopes have been blighted. Who can deny that his heart beat wildly and high in his bosom, And that with purer pulses his breast more freely was throbbing. When the newborn sun first rose in the whole of its glory x When we heard of the right of man, to have all things in common, Heard of noble Equality, and of inspiriting Freedom Each man then hoped to attain new life for himself, and the fetters Which had encircled many a land appear 'd to be broken/ Fetters held by the hands of sloth and selfish indul' gence. HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 363 Did not all nations turn their gaze, in those days of emotion, Tow'rds the world's capital, which so many a long year had been so, And then more than ever deserved a name so distin- guish 'd? Were not the men who first proclaim 'd so noble a mes- sage, Names that are worthy to rank with the highest the sun ever shone on, Did not each give to mankind his courage and genius and language? "And we also, as neighbors, at first were warmly excited. Presently after began the war, and the train of arm'd Frenchmen Nearer approach 'd; at first they appear 'd to bring with them friendship, And they brought it in fact; for all their souls were exalted. And the gay trees of liberty ev'ry where gladly they planted, Promising unto each his own, and the government long'd for. Greatly at this was youth, and greatly old age was de- lighted, And the joyous dance began round the newly -raised standards. In this manner the overpowering Frenchmen soon con- quer 'd First the minds of the men, with their fiery lively pro- ceedings, Then the hearts of the women, with irresistible graces. Even the strain of the war, with its many demands, seem'd but trifling, For before our eyes the distance by hope was illumined, Luring our gaze far ahead into paths now first open'd before us. " O how joyful the time, when with his bride the glad bridegroom Whirls in the dance, awaiting the day that will joiu them for ever! 364 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. But more glorious far was the time when the Highest of all things Which man's mind can conceive, close by and attain* ahle seemed. Then were the tongues of all loosen 'd, and words of wis- dom and feeling Not by greybeards alone, but by men and by striplings were utter* d. " But the heavens soon clouded became For the sake of the mast'ry Strove a contemptible crew, unfit to accomplish good actions. Then they murder' d each other, and took to oppressing their new-found Neighbors and brothers, and sent on missions whole herds of self-seekers; And the superiors took to carousing and robbing by wholesale, And the inferiors down to the lowest caroused and robb'd also. Nobody thought of aught else than having enough for to-morrow. Terrible was the distress, and daily increased the oppres- sion. None the cry understood, that they of the day were the masters. Then even temperate minds were attack 'd by sorrow and fury; Each one reflected, and swore to avenge all the injuries suffer' d, And to atone for the bitter loss of hopes twice-defrauded. Presently Fortune declared herself on the side of the Germans, And the French were compell'd to retreat by forced marches before them. Ah! the sad fate of the war we then for the first time experienced. For the victor is kind and humane, at least he appears so, And he spares the man he has vanquish 'd, as if he his own were, When he employs him daily, and with his property helps him. HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 365 But the fugitive knows no law; he wards off death only, And both quickly and recklessly all that he meets w ith, consumes he. Then his mind becomes heated apace; and soon desper- ation Fills his heart, and impels him to all kinds of criminal actions. Nothing then holds he respected, he steals it. With furious longing On the woman he rushes; his lust becomes awful to think of. Death all round him he sees, his last minutes in cruelty spends he, Wildly exulting in blood, and exulting in howls and in anguish. " Then in the minds of our men arose a terrible yearning That which was lost to avenge, and that which remain 'd to defend still. All of them seized upon arms, lured on by the fugitives' hurry. By their pale faces, and by their shy, uncertain de- meanor. There was heard the sound of alarm-bells unceasingly ringing, And the approach of danger restrain 'd not their violent fury. Soon into weapons were turn'd the implements peace- ful of tillage, And with dripping blood the sycthe and the pitchfork were cover 'd. Every foeman without distinction was ruthlessly slaughter 'd, Fury was ev'ry where raging, and artful, cowardly weakness. May I never again see men in such wretched confusion ! Even the raging wild beast is a better object to gaze on. Ne'er let them speak of freedom, as if themselves they could govern! All the evil which Law has driven far back in the cor- ner Seems to escape, as soon as the fetters which bound it are loosen 'd. " 366 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. "Excellent man," replied the pastor, with emphasis speaking: — " If you're mistaken in man, 'tis not for me to reprove you. Evil enough have you suffer 'd indeed from his cruel proceedings! Would you but look back, however, on days so laden with sorrow, You would yourself confess how much that is good you have witness'd, Much that is excellent, which remains conceal'd in the bosom Till by danger 'tis stirr'd, and till necessity makes man Show himself as an angel, a tutular God unto others." Then with a smile replied the worthy old magistrate, saying:— " Your reminder is wise, like that which they give to the suff 'rer Who has had his dwelling burnt down, that under the ruins, Gold and silver are lying, though melted and cover'd with ashes. Little, indeed, it may be, and yet that little is pre- cious, And the poor man digs it up, and rejoices at finding the treasure. Gladly, therefore, I turn my thoughts to those few worthy actions Which my memory still is able to dwell on with pleasure. Yes, I will not deny it, I saw late foeman uniting So as to save the town from harm; I saw with devotion Parents, children, and friends impossible actions at- tempting, Saw how the youth of a sudden became a man, how the greybeard Once more was young, how the child as a stripling appear 'd in a moment Aye, and the weaker sex, as people commonly call it, Show'd itself brave and daring, with presence of mind all-unwonted. HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 367 Let me now, in the first place, describe a deed of "rare merit By a high-spirited girl accomplish 'd, an excellent maiden, Who, in the great farmhouse remain'd behind with the servants, When the whole of the men had departed, to fight with the strangers. Well, there fell on the court a troop of vagabond scoun- drels. Plund'ring and forcing their way inside the rooms of the women. Soon they cast their eyes on the forms of the grown-up fair maiden, And of the other dear girls, in age little more than mere children. Hurried away by raging desire, unfeelingly rush'd they On the trembling band, and on the high spirited maidens. But she instantly seized the sword from the side of a ruffian, Hew'd him down to the ground; at her feet straight fell he, all bleeding. Then with doughty strokes the maidens she bravely deliver 'd, Wounded four more of the robbers; with life, however, escaped they. Then she lock'd up the court, and, arm'd still, waited for succor.' ' When the pastor heard the praise of the maiden thus utter 'd, Feelings of hope for his friend forthwith arose in his bosom, And he prepared to ask what had been the fate of the damsel, Whether she, in the sorrowful flight, form'd one of the people? At this moment, however, the druggist nimbly ap. proach'd them, Puli'd the sleeve of the pastor, and whisper 'd to him a3 follows: — 368 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. " I have at last pick'd out the maiden from many a hundred By her description! Pray come and judge for yourself with your own eyes; Bring the magistrate with you, that we may learn the whole story. " So they turn'd themselves round; but the magistrate found himself summon 'd By his own followers, who had need of his presence and counsel. But the pastor forthwith the druggist accompanied, till they Came to a gap in the hedge, when the latter pointed with slyness. " See you," exclaim'd he, " the maiden? .The child's clothes she has been changing. And I recognize well the old calico — also the cushion- Cover of blue, which Hermann took in the bundle and gave her. Quickly and well, of a truth, she has used the presents left with her. These are evident proofs; and all the rest coincide too; For a bodice red her well-arch 'd bosom upraises, Prettily tied, while black are the stays fitting close around her. Then the seams of the ruff she has carefully plaited and folded, Which, with modest grace, her chin so round is en- circling; Free an joyously rises her head, with its elegant oval, Strongly round bodkins of silver her back-hair is many times twisted. When she is sitting, we plainly see her noble propor- tions, And the blue well-plaited gown which begins from close to her bosom, And in rich folds descending, her well-turn'd ankles envelops. Tis she, beyond all doubt. So come, that we may ex- amine Whether she be both a good and a frugal and virtuous maiden." HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 369 Then the pastor rejoin'd, the sitting damsel inspecting:— . " That she enchanted the youth, I confess is no matter of wonder, For she stands the test of the gaze of a man of experience. Happy the person to whom Mother Nature the right face has given ! She recommends him at all times, he never appears as a stranger, Each one gladly approaches, and each one beside him would iinger, If with his face is combined a pleasant and courteous demeanor. Yes, I assure you the youth has indeed discover 'd a maiden Who the whole of the days of his life will enliven with gladness, And with her womanly strength assist him at all times and truly. Thus a perfect body preserves the soul also in pureness, And a vigorous youth of a happy old age gives assur- ance. " After reflecting a little, the druggist made anwer as fol- lows — "Yet appearances oft are deceitful. I trust not the outside. Often, indeed, have I found the truth of the proverb which tells us: Ere you share a bushel of salt with a new-found acquaintance, Do not trust him too readily; time will make you more certain How you and he will get on, and whether your friend- ship is lasting. Let us then, in the first place, inquire amongst the good people Unto whom the maiden is known, who can tell us about her. ' ' " Well, of a truth I commend your prudence," the pas- tor continued: — " Not for oarselves are we wooing! To woo for others is serious. ' ' 370 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. So they started to meet the worthy magistrate, seeing How in the course of his business he was ascending the main street. And the wise pastor straightway address 'd him with foresight as follows: — " We, by-the-bye, have just seen a girl in the neighbor- ing garden Under an apple- tree sitting, and clothes for the children preparing, Made of worn calico which for the purpose was doubt- less presented. We were pleased by her face; she appears to be one of the right sort. Tell us, what know you about her? We ask from a laudable motive. ' ' When the magistrate came to the garden and peepd' in, exclaimed he: — "Well do I know her, in truth; for when I told you the story Of that noble deed which was done by the maiden I spoke of, How she seized on the sword, and defended herself, and the servants, — She the heroine was! You can see how active her nature. But she's as good as she's strong; for her aged kinsman she tended Until the time of his death, for he died overwhelm 'd by affliction At the distress of his town, and the danger his goods were exposed to. Also with mute resignation she bore the grievous afflic- tion Of her betroth'd sad death, a noble young man who, incited By the first fire of noble thoughts, to struggle for free- dom, Went himself to Paris, and soon found a terrible death there. For, as at home, so there, he fought 'gainst intrigue and oppression." HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 371 Thus the magistrate spoke. The others departed and thanked him, And the pastor produced a gold piece (the silver his purse held He some hours before had with genuine kindness ex- pended When he saw the fugitives passing in sorrowful masses.) And the magistrate handed it, saying: — ''Divide it, 1 pray you, 'Mongst those who need it the most. May God give it prosperous increase. " But the man refused to accept it, and said: — " I assure you, Many a dollar we've saved, and plenty of clothing and such things, And I trust we may reach our homes before they are finish'd." Then continued the pastor, the gold in his hand once more placing: — "None should delay to give in days like the present, and no one Ought to refuse to receive what is offer 'd with liberal kindness. No one can tell how long he will keep what in peace he possesses, No one, how long he is doom'd in foreign countries to wander, While he's deprived of the field and the garden by which he is nurtured. ' ' "Bravo!" added in turn the druggist, with eagerness speaking: — Had I but money to spare in my pocket, you surely should have it. Silver and gold alike; for your followers certainly need it. Yet I'll not leave you without a present, if only to show you My good will, and I hope you will take the will for the action. ' ' 372 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. Thus he spoke and pull'd out by the 1 1 ing, the leather embroider 'd Pouch, in which he was wont his stock of tobacco to carry, Daintily open'd and shared its contents — some two or three pipes' full. " Small in truth is the gift," he added. The magistrate answered: — " Good tobacco is always a welcome present to travelers." Then the druggist began his canister to praise very highly. But the pastor drew him away, and the magistrate left them. " Come, let us hasten!" exclaim'd the sensible man, foi our young friend Anxiously waits; without further delay let him hear the good tidings. ' ' So they hasten 'd and came, and found that the young ster was leaning 'Gainst his carriage under the lime-trees. The horses were pawing Wildly the turf; he held them in check aad stood there all pensive; Silently gazing in front, and saw not his friends coming near him, Till, as they came, they called him and gave him sig* nals of triumph. Some way off the druggist already began to address him, But they approach 'd the youth still nearer, and then the good pastor Seized his hand and spoke and took the word from his comrade: — ' Friend, I wish you joy! Your eye so* true and your true heart Rightly have chosen! May you and the wife of your young days be happy! She is full worthy of you; so come and turn round the carriage, That we may reach without delay the end of the village, So as to woo her, and shortly escort the dear creators home with us. ' ' HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 373 But the youth stood still, and without any token of pleasure Heard the words of the envoy, though sounding con- soling and heav'nly, Deeply sigh'd and said: — " We came full speed in the carriage, And shall probably go back home ashamed and but slowly; For, since I have been waiting care has fallen upon me, Doubt and suspicion and all that a heart full of love is exposed to. Do you suppose, we have only to come, for the maiden to follow, Just because we are rich, and she poor and wandering in exile? Poverty, when undeserved, itself makes proud. The fair maiden Seems to be active and frugal; the w^orld she may claim as her portion. Do you suppose that a woman of such great beauty and manners Can have gro wn up without exciting love in man 's bosom ? Do you suppose that her heart until now has to love been fast closed? Do not drive thither in haste for perchance to our shame and confusion We shall have slowly to turn towards home the heads of our horses. Yes, some youth, I fear me, possseses her heart, and already She has doubtless promised her hand and her solemn troth plighted, A.nd I shall stand all ashamed before her, when making my offer. ' ' Then the paster proceeded to cheer him with words of good comfort, &ut his companion broke in, in his usual talkative man- ner: — H As things used to be, this embarrassment would not have happened, When each matter was brought to a close in an orthodox. fashion, 374 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. Then for their son themselves the bride the parents selected, And a friend of the house was secretly call'd in the first place. He was then quickly sent as a suitor to visit the parents Of the selected bride; and, dress'd in his gayest apparel, Went after dinner some Sunday to visit the excellent burgher, And began by exchanging polite remarks on all subjects, Cleverly turning and bending the talk in the proper direction. After long beating about the bush, he flatter 'd the daughter, And spoke well of the man and the house that gave his commission. Sensible people soon saw his drift, and the sensible envoy Watch 'd how the notion was taken, and then could explain himself farther. If they declined the proposal, why then the refusal cos*; nothing, But if all prosper' d, why then the suitor for ever there- after Play'd the first fiddle at every family feast and rejoic- ing. For the married couple remember'd the whole of their lifetime Whose was the skilful hand by which the marriage knot tied was. All this now is chang'd, and with many an excellent custom Has gone quite out of fashion. Each person woos for himself now. Everyone now must bear the weight of a maiden's refusal On his own shoulders, and stand all ashamed before her, if needs be. " 1 Let that be .as it may, " then answered the young man who scarcely Heard what was said, and his mind had made up already in silence: — HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 375 " I will go myself, and out of the mouth of the maiden Learn my own fate, for towards her I cherish the most trustful feelings That any man ever cherish 'd towards any woman whatever. That which she says will be good and sensible, — this I am sure of. If I am never to see her again, I must once more behold her, And the ingenious gaze of her black eyes must meet for the last time. If to my heart I may clasp her never, her bosom and shoulders I would once more see, which my arm so longs to encircle; Once more the mouth I would see, from which one kiss and a Yes will Make me happy for ever, a No for ever undo me. But now leave me alone! Wait here no longer. Return you Straight to my father and mother, in order to tell them in person That their son was right, and that the maiden is worthy. And so leave me alone! I myself shall return by the footpath Over the hill by the pear-tree and then descend through the vineyard, Which is the shortest way back. Oh may I soon with rejoicing Take the beloved one home ! But perchance all alone I must slink back By that path to our house and tread it no more with a light heart." Thus he spoke, and then placed the reins in the hands of the pastor, Who, in a knowing way both the foaming horses restraining, Nimbly mounted the carriage, and took the seat of the driver. But you still delay 'd, good cautious neighbor, and spoke thus: — 376 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. "Friend, I will gladly entrust to you soul, and spirit, and mind too, But my body and bones are not preserved in the best way When the hand of a parson such worldly matters a* reins grasps!" But you smiled in return, you sensible pastor, reply- ing:— " Pray jump in, nor fear with both body and spirit to trust me, For this hand to hold the reins has long been accus tom'd, And these eyes are train 'd to turn the corner with pru- dence. For we were wont to drive the carriage, when living at Strasburg, At the time when with the young baron I went there, for daily, Driven by me, through the echoing gateway thunder 'd the carriage By the dusty roads to distant meadows and lindens, Through the crowds of the people who spend their life- time in walking. " Partially comforted, then his neighbor mounted the carriage, Sitting like one prepared to make a wise jump, if needs be, And the stallions, eager to reach their stables, coursed homewards, While beneath their powerful hoofs the dust rose in thick clouds. Long there stood the youth, and saw the dust rise be- fore him, Saw the dust disperse; but still he stood there, unthink- ing. HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 377 VII. ERATO. DOROTHEA As the man on a journey, who, just at the moment of sunset, Fixes his gaze once more on the rapidly vanishing planet, Then on the side of the rocks and in the dark thicket still sees he Hov'ring its image; wherever he turns his looks, on in front still Runs it, and glitters and wavers before him in colors all splendid, So before Hermann's eyes did the beautiful form of the maiden Softly move, and appear 'd to follow the path through the cornfields. But he roused hirriself up from his startling dream, and then slowly Turn'd tow'rd the village his steps, and once more started, — for once more Saw he the noble maiden's stately figure approaching. Fixedly gazed he; it was no phantom in truth; she her- self 'twas. In her hands by the handle she carried two pitchers, — ■ one larger One of a smaller size, and nimbly walk'd to the foun- tain. And he joyfully went to meet her; the sight of her gave him Courage and strength, and so he address 'd the surprised one as follows: — " Do I find you again, brave maiden, engaged in assist- ing Others so soon, and in giving refreshment to those who may need it? Tell me why you have come all alone to the spring so far distant, 378 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. Whilst the rest are content with the water that's found in the village? This one, indeed, special virtue possesses, and pleasant to drink is. Is't for the sake of that sick one you come, whom you saved with such courage?" Then the good maiden the youth in friendly fashion saluted, Saying: — " Already my walk to the fountain is fully rewarded, Since I have found the kind person who gave us sg many good presents; For the sight of a giver, like that of a gift, is re* freshing. Come and see for yourself the persons who tasted your kindness, And receive the tranquil thanks of all you have aided. But that you may know why I have come here, Water to draw at a spot where the spring is both pure and unceasing, I must inform you that thoughtless men have disturb 'd all the water Found in the village, by carelessly letting the horses and oxen Wade about in the spring which give the inhabitants water. In the same manner, with all their washing and clean- ing they've dirtied All the troughs of the village, and all the fountains have sullied. For each one of them only thinks how quickly and soon he May supply his own wants, and cares not for those who come after. " Thus she spoke, and soon she arrived at the foot of the broad steps With her companion, and both of them sat themselves down on the low wall Round the spring. She bent herself over, to draw out the water, He the other pitcher took up, and bent himself over, HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 379 And in the blue of the heavens they saw their figures reflected, Waving and nodding, and in the mirror their greetings exchanging. " Now let me drink, " exclaimed the youth in accents of gladness, And she gave him the pitcher. They then, like old friends, sat together, Leaning against the vessels, when she addressed him as follows: — " Say, why find I you here without your carriage and horses, Far from the place where first I saw you. Pray how came you hither?" Hermann thoughtfully gazed on the ground, but pres- ently lifted Calmly towards her his glances, and gazed on her face in kind fashion, Feeling quite calm and composed. And yet with love to address her Found he quite out of the question; for love from her eyes was not beaming, But an intellect clear, which bade him use sensible lan- guage. Soon he collected his thoughts, and quietly said to the maiden: — " Let me speak, my child, and let me answer your ques- tions. 'Tis for your sake alone I have come, — why seek to conceal it? For I happily live with two affectionate parents, Whom I faithfully help to look after our house and pos- sessions, Being an only son,while numerous are our employments. I look after the field-work; the house is carefully man- aged By my father; my mother the hostelry cheers and en- livens. But you also have doubtless found out how greatly the servants, Sometimes by fraud, and sometimes by levity, worry their mistress, 380 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. Constantly making her change them, and barter one fault for another. Long has my mother, therefore, been wanting a girl in the household, Who, not only with hand, but also with heart might assist her, In the place of the daughter she lost, alas, prematurely. Now when I saw you to-day near the carriage, so active and sprightly, Saw the strength of your arm and the perfect health q£ your members, When I heard your sensible words, I was struck with amazement, And I hasten 'd back home, deservedly praising the stranger Both to my parents and friends. And now I come to inform you What they desire, as I do. Forgive my stammering language ! ' ' " Do not hesitate, " said she, " to tell me the rest of your story; I have with gratitude felt that you have not sought to insult me. Speak on boldly, I pray; your words shall never alarm me; You wo aid fain hire me now as maid to your father and mother, To look after the house, which is now in excellent order. And you think that in me you have found a qualified maiden, One that is able to. work, and not of a quarrelsome nature. Your proposal was short, and short shall my answer be also: — Yes! with you I will go, and the voice of my destiny follow. I have fulfill 'd my duty, and brought the lying-in woman Back to her friends again, who all rejoice at her rescue. Most of them now are together, the rest will presently join them. HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 381 All expect that they, in a few short days, will be able Homewards to go; 'tis thus that exiles themselves love to natter. But I cannot deceive myself with hopes so delusive In these sad days which promise still sadder days in the future; For all the bonds of the world are loosen 'd, and nought can rejoin them, Save that supreme necessity over our future impending. If in the house of so worthy a man I can earn my own • living, Serving under the eye of his excellent wife, I will do so; For a wandering girl bears not the best reputation. Yes! with you I will go, as soon as I've taken the pitcher Back to my friends, and received the blessing of those worthy people. Come! you needs must see them, and from their hands shall receive me." Joyfully heard the youth the willing maiden's decision, Doubting whether he now had not better tell her the whole truth: But it appear 'd to him best to let her remain in her error, First to take her home, and then for her love to entreat her, Ah! but now he espied a golden ring on her finger, And so let her speak, while he attentively listened: — " Let us now return," she continued, " the custom is always To admonish the maidens who tarry too long at the fountain, Yet how delightful it is by the fast-flowing water to chatter." Then they both arose, and once more directed their glances Into the fountain, and then a blissful longing came o'er them. So from the ground by the handles she silently lifted the pitchers, < 382 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. Mounted the steps of the well, and Hermann follow' d the loved one. One of the pitchers he ask'd her to give him, thus shar- ing the burden. " Leave it," she said, " the weight feels less when thus they are balanced; And the master I've so soon to obey, should not be my servant. Gaze not so earnestly at me, as if my fate were still doubtful ! Women should learn betimes to serve, according "to station, For by serving alone she attains at last to the mast'ry, To the due influence which she ought to possess in the household. Early the sister must learn to serve her brothers and parents, And her life is ever a ceaseless going and coming, Or a lifting and carrying, working and doing for others. Well for her, if she finds no manner of life too offensive, And if to her the hours of night and day all the same are, So that her work never seems too mean, her needle too pointed, So that she forgets, and livcth only for others ! For as a mother in truth she needs the whole of her virtues, When the suckling awakens the sick one, and nourish- ment calls for From the exhausted parent, heaping cares upon suf- f'ring. Twenty men together could not endure such a burden, And they ought not, — and yet they gratefully ought to behold it." Thus she spoke, and with her silent companion ad- vanced she Through the garden, until the floor of the granary reach 'd they, Where the sick woman lay, whom she left by her daughters attended, Those dear rescued maidens, the types of innocent beauty. HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 383 Both then enter'd the room, and from the other direction Holding a child in each hand, her friend, the magistrate, enter'd. These had lately been lost for some time by the sor- rowing mother, But the old man had now found them out in the crowd of the people. And they sprang in with joy, to greet their dearly-loved mother, To rejoice in a brother, the playmate now seen for the first time! Then on Dorothea they sprang, and greeted her warmly, Asking for bread and fruit, but asking for drink before all things. And they handed the water all round. The children first drank some,- Then the sick woman drank, with her daughters, the magistrate also. All were refresh 'd, and sounded the praise of the excel- lent water; Mineral was it. and very reviving, and wholesome for drinking. Then with a serious look continued the maiden, and spoke thus: — " Friends, to your mouths for the last time in truth I have lifted the pitcher, And for the last time, alas, have moisten 'd your lips with pure water. But whenever in scorching heat your drink may refresh And in the shade you enjoy repose and a fountain unsullied, Then remember me, and all my friendly assistance, Which I from love, and not from relationship merely have render 'd. All your kindness to me, as long as life lasts, I'll remem- ber. I unwillingly leave you; but each one is now to each other Rather a burden than comfort. We all must shortly ba scatter 'd Over a foreign land, unless to return we are able. 384 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. See, here stands the youth to whom for these gifts we're indebted, All those clothes for the child, and all those acceptable viands. Well, he has come, and is anxious that I to his house should go with him, There as a servant to act to his rich and excellent parents, And I have not refused him, for serving appears my vocation, And to be served by others at home would seem like a burden. So I'll go willingly with him; the youth appears to be prudent, Thus will his parents be properly cared for, as rich peo* ple should be. Therefore, now, farewell, my much-beloved friend, and be joyful In the living infant, who looks so healthy at you. When you press him against your bosom, wrapp'd in those color 'd Swaddling-clothes, then remember the youth who so kindly bestow'd them, And who in future will feed and clothe me also, your loved friend. You too, excellent man," to the magistrate turning, she added: — " Warmly I thank for so often acting the part of a father. " Then she knelt herself down before the lying-in patient, Kiss'd the weeping woman, her whisper 'd blessing receiving. Meanwhile the worthy magistrate spoke to Hermann as follows: — u You deserve, my friend, to be counted amongst the good landlords Who are anxious to manage their house through quali- fied people. For I have often observed how cautiously men are accustomed Sheep and cattle and horses to watch, when buying or bart'ring; HERMANN AND DO HOT UK A. 385 But a man, who's so useful, provided he's good and efficient, And who does so much harm and mischief by treach- erous dealings, Him will people admit to their houses by a chance and hap-hazard, And too late find reason to rue an o'erhasty decision. This you appear to understand, for a girl you have chosen As your servant, and that of your parents, who thor- oughly good is. Treat her well, and as long as she finds the business suit her, You will not miss your sister, your parents will miss not their daughter. ' ' Other persons now enter 'd, the patient's nearest rela- tions, Many articles bringing, and better lodgings announcing. All were inform 'd of the maiden's decision, and warmly bless 'd Hermann, Both with significant looks, and also with grateful ex- pressions, And one secretly whisper'd into the ear of another: — 1 ' If the master should turn to a bridegroom, her home is provided.' ' Hermann then presently took her hand, and address 'd her as follows: — " Let us be going; the day is declining, and far off the village." Then the women, with lively expressions, embraced Dorothea; Hermann drew her away; they still continued to greet her. Next the children, with screams and terrible crying attack'd her, Pulling at her clothes, their second mother refusing to part from. But first one of the women, and then another rebuked them : — " Children, hush! to the town she is going, intending to bring you Plenty of gingerbread back, which your brother already had order 'd, 386 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. From the confectioner, when the stork was passing there lately, And she'll soon return, with the papers prettily gilded. " So at length the children released her; but scarcely could Hermann Tear her from their embraces and distant -signalling kerchiefs. VIII. MELPOMENE. HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. So tow'rd the sun, now fast sinking to rest, the two walk'd together, Whilst he veil'd himself deep in clouds which thunder portended. Out of his veil now here, now there, with fiery glances Beaming over the plain with rays foreboding and lurid. " May this threatening weather," said Hermann, " not bring to us shortly Hail and violent rain, for well does the harvest now promise. ' 9 And they both rejoiced in the corn so lofty and waving, Well nigh reaching the heads of the two tall figures that walk'd there. Then the maiden spoke to her friendly leader as fol- lows: — " Generous youth, to whom I shall owe a kind destiny shortly, Shelter and home, when so many poor exiles must weather the tempest, In the first place tell me all about your good parents, Whom I intend to serve with all my soul from hence- forward; Knowing one's master, 'tis easier far to give satisfac- tion, By rememb'ring the things which he deems of the highest importance, And on which he has set his heart with the greatest decision. HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 387 Tell ine then, how best I can win your father and mother. ' ' Then the good and sensible youth made answer as fol- lows: — "You are indeed quite right, my kind and excellent maiden, To begin by asking about the tastes of my parents! For I have hitherto striven in vain to satisfy Father, When I look 'd after the inn, as well as my regular duty, Working early and late in the field, and tending the vineyard. Mother indeed was contented; she knew how to value my efforts; And she will certainly hold you to be an excellent maiden, If you take care of the house, as though the dwelling your own were. But my father's unlike her; he's fond of outward ap. pearance. Gentle maiden, deem me not cold and void of all feel- ing, If I disclose my father's nature to you, who 're a stranger. Yes, such words have never before escaped, I assure you, Out of my mouth, which is little accustom 'd to babble and chatter; But you have managed to worm all my secrets from out of my bosom. Well, my worthy father the graces of life holds in honor, Wishes for outward signs of love as well as of rev'rence, And would doubtless be satisfied with an inferior ser» vant Who understood this fancy, and hate a better, who did not." Cheerfully she replied, with gentle movement increasing Through the darkening path the speed at which she was walking: — " I in truth shall hope to satisfy both of your parents, For your mother's character my own nature resem- bles, 388 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. And to external graces have I from my youth been accustom' d. Our old neighbors, the French, in their earlier days laid much stress on Courteous demeanor; 'twas common alike to nobles and burghers, And to peasants, and each enjoin'd it on all his acquaintance. In the same way, on the side of the Germans, the chil- dren were train' d up Every morning, with plenty of kissing of hands and of curtsies, To salute their parents, and always to act with polite- ness. All that I have learnt, and all I have practised since childhood, All that comes from my heart, — I will practise it all with the old man. But on what terms shall I — I scarcely dare ask such a question, — Be with yourself, the only son, and hereafter my mas- ter?" Thus she spoke, and at that moment they came to the pear-tree Down from the skies the moon at her full was shining in glory; Night had arrived, and the last pale gleam of the sunset had vanish 'd. So before them were lying, in masses all heap'd up to- gether Lights as clear as the day, and shadows of night and of darkness. And the friendly question was heard by Hermann with pleasure, Under the shade of the noble tree at the spot which he loved so, Which that day had witness 'd his tears at the fate of the exile. &nd whilst they sat themselves down, to take a little repose there, Thus the loving youth spoke, whilst he seized the hand of the maiden: — HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 389 " Let your heart give the answer, and always obey what it tells you!" But he ventured to say no more, however propitious Was the moment; hefear'd that a No would be her sole answer, Ah! and he, felt the ring on her finger, that sorrowful token. So by the side of each other they quietly sat and in silence, But the maiden began to speaiv, and said, " How de- lightful Is the light of the moon ! The clearness of day it resem- bles. Yonder I see in the town the houses and courtyards quite plainly, In the gable a window; methinks all the panes I can reckon." " That which you see," replied the youth, who spoke with an effort, " That is our house down to which I now am about to conduct you. And that window yonder belongs to my room in the attic, Which will probably soon be yours, as we're making great changes. All these fields are ours, and ripe for the harvest to-mor- row; Here in the shade we are wont to rest, enjoying our meal- time. But let us now descend across the vineyard and garden, For observe how the threatening storm is hitherward rolling, Lightening first, and then eclipsing the beautiful full mqon. ,, So the *pair arose, and wander 'd down by the cornfield, Through the powerful corn, in the nightly clearness rejoicing; And they reach 'd the vineyard, and through its dark shadows proceeded. So he guided her down the numerous tiers of the fiat stones Which, in an unhewn state, served as steps to the walk through the foliage. 390 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. Slowly she descended, and placed her hands on his shoulders; And, with a quivering light, the moon through the foliage o'erlook'd them, Till by storm-clouds envelop 'd, she left the couple in darkness. Then the strong youth supported the maiden, who on him was leaning; She, however, not knowing the path, or observing tha rough steps, Slipp'd as she walk'd, her foot gave way, and she well nigh was falling. Hastily held out his arm the youth with nimbleness thoughtful, And held up his beloved one; she gently sank on his shoulder, Breast was press 'd against breast, and cheek against cheek, and so stood he Fix'd like a marble statue, restrained by a firm reso- lution; He embraced her no closer, though all her weight he supported; So he felt his noble burden, the warmth of her bosom, And her balmy breath, against his warm lips exhaling, Bearing with manly feelings the woman's heroical great- ness. But she conceal'd the pain which she felt, and jestingly spoke thus: — " It betokens misfortune, — so scrupulous people inform us, — For the foot to give way on entering a house, near the threshold. I should have wish'd, in truth, for a sign of some hap- pier omen! Let us tarry a little, for fear your parents should blame you, For their limping servant, and you should be thought a bad landlord. ' ' HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 391 IX. URANIA. CONCLUSION. O ye Muses, who gladly favor a love that is heartfelt, Who on his way the excellent youth have hitherto guided, Who have press 'd the maid to his bosom before their betrothal, Help still further to perfect the bonds of a couple so loving, Drive away the clouds which over their happiness hover! But begin by saying what now in the house has been passing. For the third time the mother impatiently enter'd the chamber Where the men were sitting, which she had anxiously quitted, Speaking of the approaching storm, and the loss of the moon's light, Then of her son's long absence, and all the perils that night brings. Strongly she censured their friends for having so soon left the youngster, For not even addressing the maiden, or seeking to woo her. " Make the worst of the mischief," the father peevishly answer 'd; " For you see we are waiting ourselves, expecting the issue. " 3ut the neighbor sat still, and calmly address 'd them as follows: — " In uneasy moments like these, I always feel grateful To my late father, who when I was young all seeds of impatience In my mind uprooted, and left no fragment remaining, 392 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. And I learnt how to wait, as well as the best of the wise men." " Tell us what legerdemain he employ 'd," the pastor made answer. "I will gladly inform you, and each one may gain by the lesson, ' ' Answer 'd the neighbor. " When I was a boy, I was standing one Sunday In a state of impatience, eagerly waiting the carriage Which was to carry us out to the fountain under the lime-trees; But it came not; I ran like a weasel, now hither, now thither, Up and down the stairs, and from the door to the win- dow; Both my hands were prickling, I scratched away at the tables, Stamping and trotting about, and scarcely refrain 'd I from crying. All this the calm man composedly saw; but finally when I Carried my folly too far, by the arm he quietly took me, Led me up to the window, and used this significant language: — ' See you up yonder the joiner's workshop, now closed for the Sunday? 'Twiil be reopen 'd to-morrow, and plane and saw will be working. Thus will the busy hours be pass'd from morning till evening. But remember this: the morning will soon be arriving, When the master, together with all his men, will be busy In preparing and finishing quicky and deftly our coffin, And they will carefully bring over here that house made of boards, which Will at length receive the patient as well as impatient, And which is destined to carry a roof that's unpleas- antly heavy. ' All that he mention 'd I forthwith saw taking place in my mind's eye, Saw the boards join'd together, and saw the black cover made ready, — Patiently then I sat, and meekly awaited the carriage HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 393 And I always think of the coffin when ever I see men K tinning about in a state of doubtful and wild expecta- tion." Smilingly answer 'd the pastor: — "Death's stirring image is neither Unto the wise a cause of alarm — or an end to the pious. Back into life it urges the former and teaches him action And for the weal of the latter it strengthens his hope in affliction. Death is a giver of life unto both. Your father did wrongly When to the sensitive boy he pointed out death in its own form. Unto the youth should be shown the worth of a noble and ripen' d Age, and unto the old man, youth, that both may rejoice m The eternal circle, and life may in life be made perfect !" Here the door was open'd. The handsome couple ap- peared there, And the friends were amazed, the loving parents aston- ished At the form of the bride, the form of the bridegroom resembling. Yes! the door appear 'd too small to admit the tall fig- ures "Which now cross' d the threshold in company walking together. To his parents Hermann presented her hastily saying: — " Here is a maiden just of the sort you are wishing to have here. Welcome her kindly, dear Father! she fully deserves it, and you too, Mother dear, ask her questions as to her housekeeping knowledge, That you may see how well she deserves to form one of our party," Then he hastily took on one side the excellent pastor, 394 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. Saying: — " Kind sir, I entreat you to help me out of this trouble Quickly, and loosen the knot, whose unraveling I am so dreading; For I have not ventured to woo as my bride the fair maiden, But she believes she's to be a maid in the house, and I fear me She will in anger depart, as soon as we talk about mar- riage. But it must be decided at once! no longer in error Shall she remain, and I no longer this doubt can put up with. Hasten and once more exhibit that wisdom we all hold in honor. " So the pastor forthwith turn'd round to the rest of the party, But the maiden's soul was, unhappily, troubled already By the talk of the father, who had just address 'd her as follows, Speaking good humor'dly, and in accents pleasant and lively: — " Yes I'm well satisfied, child! I joyfully see that my son has Just as good taste as his father, who in his younger days show'd it, Always leading the fairest one out in the dance, and then lastly Taking the fairest one home as his wife — 'twas your dear little mother! For by the bride whom a man selects, we may easily gather What kind of spirit his is, and whether he knows his his own value. But you will surely need but a short time to form your decision, For verily I think he will find it full easy to follow. " Hermann but partially heard the words; the whole of his members Inwardly quiver 'd, and all the circle was suddenly silent. HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 395 But the excellent maiden, by words of such irony wounded, (As she esteem 'd them to be) and deeply distress 'd in her spirit, Stood, while a passing flush from her cheeks as far as her neck was Spreading, but she restrained herself, and collected her thoughts soon; Then to the old man she said, not fully concealing her sorrow: — " Truly I was not prepared by your son for such a re- ception, When he described his father's nature, — that excellent burgher, And I know I am standing before you, a person of culture, Who behaves himself wisely to all, in a suitable manner. But it would seem that you feel not pity enough for the poor thing Who has just cross 'd your threshold, prepared to enter your service; Else you would not seek to point out, with ridicule bitter, How far removed my lot from your son's and that of yourself is. True, with a little bundle, and poor, I have enter 'd your dwelling, Which it is the owner's delight to furnish with ail things. But I know myself well, and feel the whole situa- tion. Is it generous thus to greet me with language so jeering, Which has well nigh expell'd me the house, when just on the threshold?" Hermann uneasily moved about, and sign'd to the pastor To interpose without delay, and clear up the error. Quickly the wise man advanced to the spot, and wit- ness'd the maiden's Silent vexation and tearful eyes and scarce-restrain'd sorrow. 396 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. Then his spirit advised him to solve not at once the confusion, But, on the contrary, prove the excited mind of the maiden. So, in words framed to try her, the pastor address 'd her as follows: — " Surely, my foreign maiden, you did not fully con- sider, When you made up your mind to serve a stranger so quickly, What it really is to enter the house of a master; For a shake of the hand decides your fate for a twelve- month, And a single word Yes to much endurance will bind you. But the worst part of the service is not the wearisome habits, N"or the bitter toil of the work, which seems never- ending; For the active freeman works hard as well as the serv- ant. But to suffer the whims of the master, who blames you unjustly, Or who calls for this and for that, not knowing his own mind, And the mistress's violence, always so easily kindled, With the children's rough and supercilious bad man- ners, — This is indeed hard to bear, whilst still fulfilling your duties Promptly and actively, never becoming morose ar ill- natured; Yet for such work you appear little fit, for already the father's Jokes have offended you deeply; yet nothing more commonly happens Than to tease a maiden about her liking a youngster.' ' Thus he spoke, and the maiden felt the weight of his language, And no more restrain 'd herself; mightily all her emo- tions Show'd themselves, her bosom heaved, and a deep sigh escaped her, HERMANN AND DOROTHEA, 397 And whilst shedding burning tears, she answer 'd as follows: — " Ne'er does the clever man, who seeks to advise us in sorrow, Think how little his chilling words our hearts can de- liver From the pangs which an unseen destiny fastens upon us. » You are happy and merry. How then should a jest ever wound you? But the slightest touch gives torture to those who are suflTring. Even dissimulation would nothing avail me at present. Let me at once disclose what later would deepen my sorrow, And consign me perchance to agony mute and con- suming. Let me depart forthwith ! No more in this house dare I linger; I must hence and away, and look once more for my poor friends Whom I left in distress, when seeking to better my fortunes. This is my firm resolve; and now I may properly tell you That which had else been buried for many a year in my bosom. Yes, the father's jest has wounded me deeply, I own it, Not that I am proud and touchy, as ill becometh a servant, But because in truth in my heart a feeling has risen For the youth, who to-day has fill'd the part of my savior. For when first in the road he left me, his image re- main 'd still Firmly fixed in my mind; and I thought of the fortun- ate maiden Whom, as his betroth 'd one, he cherish'd perchance in his bosom. And when I found him again at the well, the sight of him charm 'd me Just as if I had seen an angel descending from heaven. 398 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. And I follow 'd him willingly, when as a servant he sought me, But by my heart in truth I was natter 'd (I need must confess it), As I hitherward came, that I might possibly win him. If I became in the house an indispensable pillar. But, alas, I now see, the dangers I well nigh fell into, When I, bethought me of living so near a silently-loved one. Now for the first time I feel how far removed a poor maiden Is from a richer youth, however clever she may be. I have told you all this, that you my heart may mis- take not, Which an event that in thought I foreshadow has wounded already. For I must have expected, my secret wishes concealing, That, ere much time had elapsed, I should see him bringing his bride home. And how then could I have endured my hidden afflic- tion! Happily I am warned in time, and out of my bosom Hast my secret escaped, whilst curable still is the evil. But no more of the subject! I now must tarry no longer In this house, where I now am standing in pain and confusion, All my foolish hopes and my feelings freely confessing. Not the night which, with sinking clouds, is spreading around us, Not the rolling thunder (I hear it already) shall stop me, Not the falling rain, which outside is descending in torrents, Not the blustering storm. All this I had to encounter In that sorrowful flight, while the enemy followed be- hind us. And once more I go on my way, as long as I have been wont to, Seized by the whirlpool of time, and parted from all I care for. So farewell! I'll tarry no longer. My fate is accom- plish^!" HERMANN AND DOROTHEA, 399 Thus she spoke, and towards the door she hastily turn'd her, Holding under her arm the bundle she brought when arriving, But the mother seized by both of her arms the fair maiden. Clasping her round the body, and cried with surprise and amazement: — " Say, what signifies this? These fruitless tears, what denote they? No, I'll not leave you alone! You're surely my dear son's betroth 'd one!" But the father stood still, and show'd a great deal of reluctance, Stared at the weeping girl, and peevishly spoke then as follows: — " This, then, is all the indulgence my friends are will- ing to give me, That at the close of the day the most unpleasant thing happens ! For there is nothing I hate so much as the tears of a woman, And their passionate cries, set up with such heat and excitement, Which a little plain sense would show to be utterly needless. Truly, I find the sight of these whimsical doings a nuisance. Matters must shift for themselves; as for me, I think it is bed-time." So he quickly turn'd round, and hastened to go to the chamber Where the marriage-bed stood, in which he slept for the most part. But his son held him back, and spcke in words of eft- treaty : — " Father, don't go in a hurry, and don't be annoy 'd with the maiden ! I alone have to bear the blame of all this confusion, Which our friend has increased by his unexpected dis- sembling. 400 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. Speak then, honor 'd Sir! for to you the affair I confided; Heap not up pain and annoyance, but rather complete the whole matter; For I surely in future should not respect you so highly. If you play practical jokes, instead of displaying true wisdom." Thereupon the worthy pastor smilingly answer'd: — " What kind of wisdom could have extracted the charm- ing confession Of this good maiden, and so have revealed all her char- acter to us? Is not your care converted at once to pleasure and rapture? Speak out, then, for yourself! Why need explanations from others?" Hermann then stepp'd forward, and gently address 'd her as follows: — " Do not repent of your tears, nor yet of your passing affliction; For they perfect my happiness; yours too, I fain would consider. I came not to the fountain, to hire so noble a maiden As a servant, I came to seek to win your affections. But, alas ! my timid gaze had not strength to discover Your heart's leanings; it saw in your eye but a friendly expression, When you greeted it out of the tranquil fountain's bright mirror. Merely to bring you home, made half of my happiness certain; But you now make it complete! May every blessing be yours, then!" Then the maiden look'd on the youth with heartfelt emotion, And avoided not kiss or embrace, the summit of rapture, When they also are to the loving, the long wish'd-fo* pledges Of approachiog bliss in a life which now seems to them endless. HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 401 Then the pastor told the others the whole of the story; But the maiden came, and gracefully bent o'er the father, Kissing the while his hand, which he to draw back at- tempted. And she said: — " I am sure that you will forgive the surprised one, First for her tears of sorrow, and then for her tears of true rapture. O forgive the emotions by which they both have been prompted, And let me fully enjoy the bliss that has now been vouchsafed me! Let the first vexation, which my confusion gave rise to, Also be the last! The loving service which lately, Was by the servant promised, shall now by the daughter be render 'd. " And the father, his tears concealing, straightway em- braced her; Lovingly came the mother in turn, and heartily kiss'd her, Warmly shaking her hand; and silently w T ept they to- gether. Then in a hasty manner, the good and sensible pastor Seized the hand of the father, his wedding-ring off from his finger Drawing (not easily though ; so plump was the member that held it); Then he took the mother's ring, and betroth 'd the two children, Saying: — " Once more may it be these golden hoops' destination Firmly to fasten a bond altogether resembling the old one! For this youth is deeply imbued with love for the maiden, And the maiden confesses that she for the youth has a liking. Therefore I now betroth you, and wish you all bless- ings hereafter, With the parents' consent, and with our friend here as a witness.' 1 402 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. And the neighbor bent forward, and added his ow£ benediction; But when the clergyman placed the gold ring on the hand of the maiden, He with astonishment saw the one which already was on it, And which Hermann before at the fountain had anx- iously noticed. Whereupon he spoke in words at once friendly and jesting: — '" What! You are twice engaging yourself? I hope that the first one May not appear at the altar, unkindly forbidding the banns there!" But she said in reply: — " O let me but devote one mo- ment To this mournful rememb'rance! For well did the good youth deserve it, Who", when departing, presented the ring, but never re- turn 'd home. All was by him foreseen, when freedom's love of a sudden, And a desire to play his part in the new-found Exist- ence, Drove him to go to Paris, w T here prison and death werf his portion. * Farewell/ said he, 1 1 go; for all things on earth are in motion At this moment, and all things appear in a state of dis- union. Fundamental laws in the steadiest countries are loosen 'd, And possessions are parted from those who used to pos- sess them, Friends are parted from friends, and love is parted from love too. I now leave you here, and whether I shall ever see you Here again, — who can tell? Perchance these words will our last be. Man is a stranger here upon earth, the proverb informs us; Every person has now become more a stranger than ever. HERMANN AND DOROTHEA, 403 Ours the soil is no longer; our treasures are fast flying from us; All the sacred old vessels of gold and silver are melted, All is moving, as though the old-fashion 'd world would roll backwards Into chaos and night, in order anew to be fashion'd. You of my heart have possession, and if we shall ever hereafter Meet again over the wreck of the world, it will be as new creatures, All remodell'd and free and independent of fortune; For what fetters can bind down those who survive such a period! But if we are destined not to escape from these dangers, If we are never again to embrace each other with rapture, O then fondly keep in your thoughts my hovering image, That you may be prepared with like courage for good and evil fortune! If a new home or a new alliance should chance to allure you, Then enjoy with thanks whatever your destiny offers, Purely loving the loving, and grateful to him who thus loves you. But remember always to tread with a circumspect foot- step, For the fresh pangs of a second loss will behind you be lurking. Deem each day as sacred; but value not life any higher Than any other possession, for all possessions are fleeting. ' Thus he spoke; and the noble youth and I parted for- ever: Meanwhile I ev'rything lost, and a thousand times thought of his warniDg, Once more I think of his words, now that love is sweetly preparing Happiness for me anew, and the brightest of hopes is unfolding. Pardon me, dearest friend, for trembling e'en at the moment When I am clasping your arm! For thus, on first landing, the sailor Fancies (hat even the solid ground is shaking beneath him. " 404 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. Thus she spoke, and she placed the rings by the side of each other. But the bridegroom answer 'd, with noble and manly emotion: — " All the firmer, amidst the universal disruption, Be, Dorothea, our union! We'll show ourselves bold and enduring, Firmly hold our own, and firmly retain our possessions. For the man who in wav 'ring times is inclined to be wav'ring Only increases the evil, and spreads it wider and wider; But the man of firm decision the universe fashions. 'Tis not becoming the Germans to further this fearful commotion, And in addition to waver uncertainly hither and thither. 'This is our own!' we ought to say, and so to main- tain it! For the world will ever applaud those resolute nations Who for God and the Law, their wives, and parents, and children Struggle, and fall when contending against the foeman together. You are mine; and now what is mine, is mine more than ever. Not with anxiety will I preserve it, or timidly use it, But with courage and strength. And if the enemy threaten Now or hereafter, I'll hold myself ready, and reach down my weapons. If I know that the house and my parents by you are protected, I shall expose my breast to the enemy, void of all terror; And if all others thought thus, then might against might should be measured, And in the early prospect of peace we should all be re- joicing," THE END. GREAT THOUGHTS from GREEK AUTHORS. By Craupurd Tait Ramage, LL.D. Handy- volume Edition, 455 pages, Brevier type, leaded, fine, cloth, red edges. GREAT THOUGHTS from LATIN AUTHORS. By C. T. Ramage, LL.D. Han dy- volume ' Ed., 679 pages, Brevier type, leaded, fine cloth, red edges. CHINESE CLASSICS. The Works of Con- fucius and Menoius, translated by James Legge, D.D. New Library Edition, small octavo, fine cloth. GRACE GREENWOOD'S STORIES. New Edition. 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