POEM S BY HENRY WADSWORTHI LONGFELLOW. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. A NEW EDITION. BOSTON: TICKNOR, REED, AND FIELDS. AI DCCC LIII. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850. by HI. W. LONGFELLOW, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of IMassachusetts, CAMBRIDGE: STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY METC AL F AND COMPANY, PRINTERS TO THE UNIVERSITY. CONTENTS OF VOL. L. VOICES OF THE NIGHT. PAGE PRELUDE..... iX VOICES OF THE NIGHT. HYMN TO THE NIGHT.... 3 A PSALM OF LIFE..... 5 THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS 8 THE LIGHT OF STARS.... 11 FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS 14 FLOWERS.... 17 THE BELEAGUERED CITY... 22.MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR.. 26 EARLIER POEMS. AN APRIL DAY..... 33 AUTUMN... 36 WOODS IN WINTER.... 39 IV CONTENTS. HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM 42 SUNRISE ON THE HILLS.. 45 THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.... 48 BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK... 52 TRANSLATIONS. COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 59 THE GOOD SHEPHERD.. 89 TO-MORROW..91 THE NATIVE LAND..... 93 THE IMAGE OF GOD.. 95 THE BROOK.... 97 THE CELESTIAL PILOT. 99 THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE..... 102 BEATRICE... 105 SPRING..... 109 THE CHILD ASLEEP.. 111 THE GRAVE.... 113 KING CHRISTIAN.. 116 THE HAPPIEST- LAND... 119 THE WAVE... 122 THE DEAD.....123 THE BIRD AND THE SHIP..... 125 CONTENTS. V WHITHER...!.... 128 "BEWARE!. e. 0 130 SONG OF THE BELL. 132 THE CASTLE BY THE SEA.. * 134 THE BLACK KNIGHT..... 137 SONG OF THE SILENT LAND 141 L'ENVOI...... 143 BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. PREFACE..... 147 BALLADS. THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR.. e 169 THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS... 182 THE LUCK OF EDENHALL... 188 THE ELECTED KNIGHT..... 193 THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER 199 MISCELLANEOUS. Y1THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.... 239 ENDYMION.... 243 TiE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR... 246 IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. 249 .Ti CONTENTS. THE RAINY DAY...... 251 GOD'S-ACRE.... 253 To THE IRIVER CHARLES 2 55 BLIND BARTIMEUS...... 258 THE GOBLET OF LIFE......260 MAIDENHOOD.......265 EXCELSIOR.......269 POEMS ON SLAVERY. To WILLIAM E. CHANNING 2.. 2 75 THE SLAVE'S DREAM. 277 THE GOOD PART.. 281 THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP 2 84 THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT.2.. 87 THE WITNESSES..... 289 THE QUADROON GIRL.....292 THE WARNING...... 296 THE SPANISH STUDENT. THIE SPANISH STUDENT.... 301 NOTES.. 469 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 1840 PRELUDE. PLEASANT it was, when woods were green, And winds were soft and low, To lie amid some sylvan scene, Where, the long drooping boughs between, Shadows dark and sunlight sheen Alternate come and go; Or where the denser grove receives No sunlight from above, But the dark foliage interweaves In one unbroken roof of leaves, Underneath whose sloping eaves The shadows hardly move. PRELUDE. Beneath some patriarchal tree I lay upon the ground; His hoary arms uplifted he, And all the broad leaves over me Clapped their little hands in glee, With one continuous sound; — A slumberous sound,- a sound that brings The feelings of a dream, - As of innumerable wings, As, when a bell no longer swings, Faint the hollow murmur rings O'er meadow, lake, and stream. And dreams of that which cannot die, Bright visions, came to me, As lapped in thought I used to lie, And gaze into the summer sky, Where the sailing clouds went by, Like ships upon the sea; PRELUDE. i' Dreams that the soul of youth engage Ere Fancy has been quelled; Old legends of the monkish page, Traditions of the saint and sage, Tales that have the rime of age, And chronicles of Eld. And, loving still these quaint old themes, Even in the city's throng I feel the freshness of the streams, That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams, Water the green land of dreams, The holy land of song. Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings The Spring, clothed like a bride, When nestling buds unfold their wings, And bishop's-caps have golden rings, Musing upon many things, I sought the woodlands wide. X1i PRELUDE. The green trees whispered low and mild; It was a sound of joy! They were my playmates when a child, And rocked me in their arms so wild 9 Still they looked at me and smiled, As if I were a boy; And ever whispered, mild and low, " Come, be a child once more! " And waved their long arms to and fro, And beckoned solemnly and slow; O, I could not choose but go Into the woodlands hoar; Into the blithe and breathing air, Into the solemn wood, Solemn and silent everywhere! Nature with folded hands seemed there, Kneeling at her evening prayer! Like one in prayer I stood. PRELUDE. Xlll Before me rose an avenue Of tall and sombrous pines; Abroad their fan-like branches grew, And, where the sunshine darted through, Spread a vapor soft and blue, In long and sloping lines. And, falling on my weary brain, Like a fast-falling shower, The dreams of youth came back again; Low lispings of the summer rain, Dropping on the ripened grain, As once upon the flower. Visions of childhood! Stay, 0 stay I Ye were so sweet and wild! And distant voices seemed to say, "c It cannot be! They pass away! Other themes demand thy lay; Thou art no more a child! xiv PRELUDE. "The land of Song within thee lies, Watered by living springs; The lids of Fancy's sleepless eyes Are gates unto that Paradise, Holy thoughts, like stars, arise, Its clouds are angels' wings. " Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be, Not mountains capped with snow, Nor forests sounding like the sea, Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly, Where the woodlands bend to see The bending heavens below. "' There is a forest where the din Of iron branches sounds! A mighty river roars between, And whosoever looks therein, Sees the heavens all black with sin, - Sees not its depths, nor bounds. PRELUDE. Xv "Athwart the swinging branches cast, Soft rays of sunshine pour; Then comes the fearful wintry blast; Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast Pallid lips say,' It is past! We can return no more!' "Look, then, into thine heart, and write! Yes, into Life's deep stream! All forms of sorrow and delight, All solemn Voices of the Night, That can soothe thee, or affright, - Be these henceforth thy theme" VOICES OF THE NIGHT. nO'TYLOC, EOEVLoa V', V7[voNOTE3Lec TawV zOIV T[OVOV. fUgOThI', ao rn x)ly&iv, Vitos A vpapoocg EURIPIDES. 3 HYMN TO THE NIGHT. I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls! I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls! I felt her presence, by its spell of might, Stoop o'er me from above; The calm, majestic presence of the Night, As of the one I love. 4 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, The manifold, soft chimes, That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, Like some old poet's rhymes. From the cool cisterns of the midnight air AMy spirit drank repose; The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, From those deep cisterns flows. O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear What man has borne before! Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, And they complain no more. Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! Descend with broad-winged flight, The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, The best-beloved Night! A PSALM OF LIFE. WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. TELL me not, in mournful numbers, " Life is but an empty dream!" For the soul-is.,dd that slumbers, And things/are not what they seem, Life is real! Life is earnest! And the. avge is not its goal-; "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," Was not spoken of the soul. VOICES OP THE NIGHT. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beatingFuneral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in'the strife! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act, -act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead! A PSALM OF LIFE. Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait. 8 TLIZF REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. THERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between. "Shall I have nought that is fair?" saith he; " Have nought but the bearded grain? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, I will give them all back again." THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. tH-e gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, He kissed their drooping leaves; It was for the Lord of Paradise He bound them in his sheaves. "My Lord has need of these flowerets gay," The Reaper said, and smiled; -" Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where he was once a child. "C They shall all bloom in fields of light, Transplanted by my care, And saints, upon their garments white, These sacred blossoms wear." And the mother gave, in tears and pain, The flowers she most did love; She knew she should find them all again In the fields of light above. 10 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 0, not in cruelty, not in wrath, The Reaper came that day; IT was an angel visited the green earth, And took the flowers away. THE LIGHT OF STARS. THE night is come, but not too soon; And sinking silently, All silently, the little moon Drops down behind the sky. There is no light in earth or heaven, But the cold light of stars; And the first watch of night is given To the red planet Mars. 12 VOICES OF TIlE NIGHT. Is it the tender star of love? The star of love and dreams? O no! from that blue tent above, A hero's armour gleams. And earnest thoughts within me rise, When I behold afar, Suspended in the evening skies, The shield of that red star. O star of strength! I see thee stand And smile upon my pain; Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, And I am strong again. Within my breast there is no light, But the cold light of stars; I give the first watch of the night To the red planet TMars. THE LIGHT OF STARS. 13 The star of the unconquered will, He rises in my breast, Serene, and resolute, and still, And calm, and self-possessed. And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, That readest this brief psalm, As one by one thy hopes depart, Be resolute and calm. O fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know ere long, Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and; be strong. 14 FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. WHEN the hours of Day are numbered, And the voices of the Night Wake the better soul, that slumbered, To a holy, calm delight; Ere the evening lamps are lighted, And, like phantoms grim and tall, Shadows from the fitful fire-light Dance upon the parlour wall; FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. 15 Then the forms of the departed Enter at the open door; The beloved, the true-hearted, Come to visit me once more; He, the young and strong, who cherished Noble longings for the strife, By the road-side fell and perished, Weary with the march of life! They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more And with them the Being Beauteous, Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven. VOICES OF THE NIGHT. With a slow and noiseless footstep Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine. And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies Uttered not, yet comprehended, Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, Breathing from her lips of air. 0, though oft depressed and lonely, All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died 17 FLOWERS. SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, Stars, that in earthys firmament do shine. Stars they are, wherein we read our history, As astrologers and seers of eld; Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, Like the burning stars, which they beheld. 2 18 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, God hath written in those stars above; But not less in the bright flowerets under us Stands the revelation of his love. Bright and glorious is that revelation, Written all over this great world of ours; Making evident our own creation, In these stars of earth, — these golden flowers. And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part Of the self-same, universal being, Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, Buds that open only to decay; FLOWERS. 19 Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, Flaunting gayly in the goldenlight; Large desires, with most uncertain issues, Tender wishes, blossoming at night! These in flowers and men are more than seeming, Workings are they of the self-same powers, Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, Seeth in himself and in the flowers. Everywhere about us are they glowing, Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born; Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing, Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn; Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, And in Summer's green-emblazoned field, But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing, In the centre of his brazen shield; 20 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. Not alone in meadows and green alleys, On the mountain-top, and by the brink Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink; Not alone in her vast dome of glory, Not on graves of bird and beast alone, But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone; In the cottage of the rudest peasant, In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell pIs of the ancient Games of Flowers; In all places, then, and in all seasons, Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, flow akin they are to human things. FLOWERS. 21 And with childlike, credulous affection We behold their tender buds expand; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land. 22 THE BELEAGUERED CITY. I HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale. Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of spectres pale Beleaguered the walls of Prague. Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, With the wan moon overhead, There stood, as in an awful dream, The army of the dead. THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 23 White as a sea-fog, landward bound, The spectral camp was seen, And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, The river flowed between. No other voice nor sound was there, No drum, nor sentry's pace; The mist-like banners clasped the air, As clouds with clouds embrace. But, when the old cathedral bell Proclaimed the morning prayer, The white pavilions rose and fell On the alarmed air. Down the broad valley fast and far The troubled army fled; Up rose the glorious morning star, The ghastly host was dead. go4 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, That strange and mystic scroll, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Beleaguer the human soul. Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, In Fancy's misty light, Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam Portentous through the night. Upon its midnight battle-ground The spectral camp is seen, And,with a sorrowful, deep sound, Flows the River of Life between. No other voice, nor sound is there, In the army of the grave; No other challenge breaks the air, But the rushing of Life's wave. TEHE BELEAGJUERED CITY. 25 And, when the solemn and deep church-bell Entreats the soul to pray, The midnight phantoms feel the spell, The shadows sweep away. Down the broad Vale of Tears afar The spectral camp is fled; Faith shineth as a morning star, Our ghastly fears are dead. 26 MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. YES, the Year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared! Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks the old man by the beard, Sorely, - sorely! The leaves are falling, falling, Solemnly and slow; Caw! caw! the rooks are calling, It is a sound of woe, A sound of woe! MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. 27 Through woods and mountain passes The winds, like anthems, roll; They are chanting solemn masses, Singing; " Pray for this poor soul, Pray, -pray! " And the hooded clouds, like friars, Tell their beads in drops of rain, And patter their doleful prayers; — But their prayers are all in vain, All in vain! There he stands in the foul weather, The foolish, fond Old Year, Crowned with wild flowers and with heather, Like weak, despised Lear, A king, - a king! 28 VOICES OF THE NIGHT Then comes the summer-like day, Bids the old man rejoice! HIis joy! his last! O, the old man gray, Loveth that ever-soft voice, Gentle and low. To the crimson woods he saith, To the voice gentle and low Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath,-'Pray do not mock me so! Do not laugh at me! " And now the sweet day is dead; Cold in his arms it lies; No stain from its breath is spread Over the glassy skies, No mist or stain! MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. 29 Then, too, the Old Year dieth, And the forests utter a moan, Like the voice of one who crieth In the wilderness alone, " Vex not his ghost!" Then comes, with an awful roar, Gathering and sounding on, The storm-wind from Labrador, The wind Euroclydon, The storm-wind! Howl! howl! and from the forest Sweep the red leaves away! Would, the sins that thou abhorrest, O Soul! could thus decay, And be swept away! VOICES OF THE NIGHT. For there shall come a mightier blast, There shall be a darker day; And the stars, from heaven down-cast, Like red leaves be swept away! Kyrie, eleyson! Christe, eleyson! EARLIER POEMS. [These poems were written for the most part during my college life, and all of them before the age of nineteen. Some have found their way into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and precarious existence in the corners of newspapers; or have changed their names and run away to seek their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, with the Bishop of Avranches, on a similar occasion; "' I cannot be displeased to see these children of mine, which I have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a more decorous garb."] 33 AN APRIL DAY. WHEN the warm sun, that brings Seed-time and harvest, has returned again,'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs The first flower of the plain. I love the season well, When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming-on of storms. 3 34 EARLIESR POEMS. From the earth's loosened mould The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold, The drooping tree revives. The softly-warbled song Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored wings Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along The forest openings. When the bright sunset fills The silver woods with light, the green slope throws Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, And wide the upland glows. And,when the eve is born, In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far, Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, And twinkles many a star. AN APRIL DAY. 35 Inverted in the tide, Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw, And the fair trees look over, side by side, And see themselves below. Sweet April! —many a thought Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed; Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, Life's golden fruit is shed. 36 AUTUMN. WITH what a glory comes and goes the year! The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out And when the silver habit of the clouds Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with A sober gladness the old year takes up His bright inheritance of golden fruits, A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene. AUTUMN. 37 There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Its mellow richness on the clustered trees, And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, Where autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees The golden robin moves. The purple finch, That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle, And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings, And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail. 39 EARLIER POEMS. 0 what a glory doth this world put on For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks On duties well performed, and days well spent! For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings. He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death Has lifted up for all, that he shall go To his long resting-place without a tear. 39 WOODS IN WINTER. WHEN winter winds are piercing chill, And through the hawthorn blows the gale With solemn feet I tread the hill, That overbrows the lonely vale. O'er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play, And gladden these deep solitudes. 40 EARLIE B rOEMS. Where, twisted round the barren oak, The summer vine in beauty clung, And summer winds the stillness broke, The crystal icicle is hung. Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs Pour out the river's gradual tide, Shrilly the skater's iron rings, And voices fill the woodland side. Alas! how changed from the fair scene, When birds sang out their mellow lay, And winds were soft, and woods were green, And the song ceased not with the day. But still wild music is abroad, Pale, desert woods! within your crowd; And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. WOODS IN WINTER. 41 Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear Has grown familiar with your song; I hear it in the opening year,I listen, and it cheers me long 42 HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM, AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER. WHEN the dying flame of day Through the chancel shot its ray, Far the glimmering tapers shed Faint light on the cowled head; And the censer burning swung, Where, before the altar, hung The blood-red banner, that with prayer Had been consecrated there. HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS. 43 And the nun's sweet hymn was heard the while, Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle. "Take thy banner! May it wave Proudly o'er the good and brave; When the battle's distant wail Breaks the sabbath of our vale, When the clarion's music thrills To the hearts of these lone hills, When the spear in conflict shakes, And the strong lance shivering breaks. "Take thy banner! and, beneath The battle-cloud's encircling wreath, Guard it! -till our homes are free! Guard it! - God will prosper thee! In the dark and trying hour, In the breaking forth of power, In the rush of steeds and men, His right hand will shield thee then. 44 EARLIER POEMS.' Take thy banner! But,when night Closes round the ghastly fight, If the vanquished warrior bow, Spare him! - By our holy vow, By our prayers and many tears, By the mercy that endears, Spare him! -he our love hath shared! Spare him! - as thou wouldst be spared! "Take thy banner! - and if e'er Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier, And the muffled drum should beat To the tread of mournful feet, Then this crimson flag shall be Martial cloak and shroud for thee." The warrior took that banner proud, And it was his martial cloak and shroud! 45 SUNRISE ON THE HILLS. I STOOD upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch Was glorious with the sun's returning march, And woods were brightened, and soft gales Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales. The clouds were far beneath me; -bathed in light, They gathered mid-way round the wooded height, And, in their fading-glory, shone Like hosts in battle overthrown, As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance, Through the gray mist thrust up its shattered lance, 46 EARLIERt POEMS. And rocking on the cliff was left The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft. The veil of cloud was lifted, and below Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow Was darkened by the forest's shade, Or glistened in the white cascade; Where upward, in the mellow blush of day, The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way. I heard the distant waters dash, I saw the current whirl and flash, — And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach, The woods were bending with a silent reach. Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell, The music of the village bell Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills; And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills, Was ringing to the merry shout, That faint and far the glen sent out, SUNRISE OlN THE HILLS. 47 Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke, Through thick-leaved branches, fiom the dingle broke. If thou art worn and hard beset With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget, If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, Go to the woods and hills! - No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears. 4b THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods, That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows; Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade, The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air, The leaves above their sunny palms outspread. With what a tender and impassioned voice It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, When the fast-ushering star of morning comes O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf; THE SPIRIT OF POETRY, 49 Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve, In mourning weeds, from out the western gate, Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves In the green valley, where the silver brook, From its full laver, pours the white cascade; And, babbling low amid the tangled woods, Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter. And frequent, on the everlasting hills, Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself In all the dark embroidery of the storm, And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid The silent majesty of these deep woods, Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, As to the sunshine and the pure,bright air Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. For them there was an eloquent voice in all The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, 4 50 EARLIER POE MS. The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds, - The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes, Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in, Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale, The distant lake, fountains, - and mighty trees, In many a lazy syllable, repeating Their old poetic legends to the wind. And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill The world; and, in these wayward days of youth, My busy fancy oft embodies it, As a bright image of the light and beauty That dwell in nature, - of the heavenly forms W'e worship in our dreams, and the soft hues That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds When the sun sets. Within her eye The heaven of April, with its changing light, THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 51 And when it wears the blue of Mfay, is hung, And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair Is like the summer tresses of the trees, When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath, It is so like the gentle air of Spring, As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy To have it round us, - and her silver voice Is the rich music of a summer bird, IHeard in the still night, with its passionate cadence. b52 BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. ON sunny slope and beechen swell, The shadowed light of evening fell; And, where the maple's leaf was brown, With soft and silent lapse came down The glory, that the wood receives, At sunset, in its brazen leaves. Far upward in the mellow light Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white, BURIAL OF THIE MINNISLNK. 53 Around a far uplifted cone, In the warm blush of evening shone; An image of the silver lakes, By which the Indian's soul awakes. But soon a funeral hymn was heard Where the soft breath of evening stirred The tall, gray forest; and a band Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, Came winding down beside the wave, To lay the red chief in his grave. They sang, that by his native bowers He stood, in the last moon of flowers, And thirty snows had not yet shed Their glory on the warrior's head; But, as the summer fruit decays, So died he in those naked days. 54 EARLIER POEMS. A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin Covered the warrior, and within Its heavy folds the weapons, made For the hard toils of war, were laid; The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds, And the broad belt of shells and beads. Before, a dark-haired virgin train Chanted the death dirge of the slain; Behind, the long procession came Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief, Leading the war-horse of their chief. Stripped of his proud and martial dress, Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless, With darting eye, and nostril spread, And heavy and impatient tread, He came; and oft that eye so proud Asked for his rider in the crowd. BURIAL OF THE MINNIS1NK. 55 They buried the dark chief they freed Beside the grave his battle steed; And swift an arrow cleaved its way To his stern heart! One piercing neigh Arose, - and, on thle dead man's plain, The rider grasps his steed again. TRANSLATIONS. [Don Jorge Manrique, the author of the following poem, flourished in the last half of the fifteenth century. He followed the profession of arms, and died on the field of battle. Mariana, in his History of Spain, makes honorable mention of him, as being present at the siege of Ucles; and speaks of him as "a youth of estimable qualities, who in this war gave brilliant proofs of his valor. He died young; and was thus cut off from long exercising his great virtues, and exhibiting to the world the light of his genius, which was already known to fame." He was mortally wounded in a skirmish near Cafiavete, in in the year 1479. The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father of the poet, Conde de Paredes and Maestre de Santiago, is well known in Spanish history and song. He died in 1476; according to Mariana, in the town of Ucles; but, according to the poem of his son, in Ocania. It was his death that called forth the poem upon which rests the literary reputation of the younger Manrique. In the language of his historian, " Don Jorge Manrique, in an elegant Ode, full of poetic beauties, rich embellishments of genius, and high moral reflections, mourned the death of his father as with a funeral hymn." This praise is not exaggerated. The poem is a model in its kind. Its conception is solemn and beautiful; and, in accordance with it, the style moves on- calm, dignified, and majestic.] COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. FROM THE SPANISH. 0 LET the soul her slumbers break, Let thought be quickened, and awake; Awake to see How soon this life is past and gone, And death comes softly stealing on, How silently! Swiftly our pleasures glide away, Our hearts recall the distant day With many sighs; The moments that are speeding fast We heed not, but the past, - the past, - More highly prize. 60 TRANSLArIoNs. Onward its course the present keeps, Onward the constant current sweeps, Till life is done; And, did.we judge of time aright, The past and future in their flight Would be as one. Let no one fondly dream again, That Hope and all her shadowy train Will not decay; Fleeting as were the dreams of old, Remembered like a tale that's told, They pass away. Our lives are rivers, gliding free To that unfathomed, boundless sea, The silent grave! Thither all earthly pomp and boast Roll, to be swallowed up and lost In one dark wave. COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 61 Thither the mighty torrents stray, Thither the brook pursues its way, And tinkling rill. There all are equal. Side by side The poor man and the son of pride Lie calm and still. I will not here invoke the throng Of orators and sons of song, The deathless few; Fiction entices and deceives, And, sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves, Lies poisonous dew. To One alone my thoughts arise, The Eternal Truth, —the Good and Wise,To Him I cry, Who shared on earth our common lot, But the world comprehended not His deity. 62 TRANSLATIONS. This world is but the rugged road Which leads us to the bright abode Of peace above; So let us choose that narrow way, Which leads no traveller's foot astray From realms of love. Our cradle is the starting-place, In life we run the onward race, And reach the goal; When, in the mansions of the blest, Death leaves to its eternal rest The weary soul. Did we but use it as we ought, This world would school each wandering To its high state. [thought Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, Up to that better world on high, For which we wait. COPLAS DE MIANRIQUE. 63 Yes, -the glad messenger of love, To guide us to our home above, The Saviour came; Born amid mortal cares and fears, He suffered in this vale of tears A death of shame. Behold of what delusive worth The bubbles we pursue on earth, The shapes we chase, Amid a world of treachery! They vanish ere death shuts the eye, And leave no trace. Time steals them from us,- chances strange, Disastrous accidents, and change, That come to all; Even in the most exalted state, Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate; The strongest fall. 64 TRANSLATIONS. Tell me, — the charms that lovers seek In the clear eye and blushing cheek, The hues that play O'er rosy lip and brow of snow, When hoary age approaches slow, Ah, where are they? The cunning skill, the curious arts, The glorious strength that youth imparts In life's first stage; These shall become a heavy weight, When Time swings wide his outward gate To weary age. The noble blood of Gothic name, Heroes emblazoned high to fame, In long array; How, in the onward course of time, The landmarks of that race sublime Were swept away! COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 65 Some, the degraded slaves of lust, Prostrate and trampled in the dust, Shall rise no more; Others, by guilt and crime, maintain The scutcheon, that, without a stain, Their fathers bore. Wealth and the high estate of pride, With what untimely speed they glide, How soon depart! Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, The vassals of a mistress they, Of fickle heart. These gifts in Fortune's hands are found; Her swift revolving wheel turns round, And they are gone! No rest the inconstant goddess knows, But changing, and without repose, Still hurries on. 5 66 TRANSLATIONS. Even could the hand of avarice save Its gilded baubles, till the grave Reclaimed its prey, Let none on such poor hopes rely; Life, like an empty dream, flits by, And where are they? Earthly desires and sensual lust Are passions springing from the dust, — They fade and die; But, in the life beyond the tomb, They seal the immortal spirit's doom Eternally! The pleasures and delights, which mask In treacherous smiles life's serious task, What are they, all, But the fleet coursers of the chase, And death an ambush in the race, Wherein we fall? COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 67 No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed, Brook no delay, - but onward speed With loosened rein; And, when the fatal snare is near, We strive to check our mad career, But strive in vain. >-Could we new charms to age impart, And fashion with a cunning art The human face, As we can clothe the soul with light, And make the glorious spirit bright With heavenly grace, - How busily each passing hour Should we exert that magic power. aWhat ardor show, To deck the sensual slave of sin, Yet leave the freeborn soul within, In weeds of woe! 68 TRANSLATIONS. Monarchs, the powerful and the strong, Famous in history and in song Of olden time, Saw, by the stern decrees of fate, Their kingdoms lost, and desolate Their race sublime. Who is the champion? who the strong? Pontiff and priest, and sceptred throng? On these shall fall As heavily the hand of Death, As when it stays the shepherd's breath Beside his stall. I speak not of the Trojan name, Neither its glory nor its shame Has met our eyes; Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead, Though we have heard so oft, and read, Their histories. COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 69 Little avails it now to know Of ages passed so long ago, Nor how they rolled; Our theme shall be of yesterday, Which to oblivion sweeps away, Like days of old. Where is the King, Don Juan? Where Each royal prince and noble heir Of Aragon? Where are the courtly gallantries? The deeds of love and high emprise, In battle done? Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye, And scarf, and gorgeous panoply, And nodding plume, — What were they but a pageant scene? What but the garlands, gay and green, That deck the tomb? 0 TRANSLATIONS. Where are the high-born dames, and where Their gay attire, and jewelled hair, And odors sweet? Where are the gentle knights, that came To kneel, and breathe love's ardent flame, Low at their feet? Where is the song of Troubadour? Where are the lute and gay tambour They loved of yore? Where is the mazy dance of old, The flowing robes, inwrought with gold, The dancers wore? And he who next the sceptre swayed, Henry, whose royal court displayed Such power and pride; O, in what winning smiles arrayed, The world its various pleasures laid His throne beside! COPLAS DE MIANRIQUE. 71 But 0! how false and full of guile That world,which wore so soft a smile But to betray! She, that had been his friend before, Now from the fated monarch tore Her charms away. The countless gifts, - the stately walls, The royal palaces, and halls All filled with gold; Plate with armorial bearings wrought, Chambers with ample treasures fraught Of wealth untold; The noble steeds, and harness bright, And gallant lord, and stalwart knight, In rich array, — Where shall we seek them now? Alas! Like the bright dewdrops on the grass, They passed away. TRANSLATIONS. His brother, too, whose factious zeal Usurped the sceptre of Castile, Unskilled to reign; WVhat a gay, brilliant court had he, When all the flower of chivalry Was in his train! But he was mortal; and the breath, That flamed from the hot forge of Deaths, Blasted his years; Judgment of God! that flame by thee, When raging fierce and fearfully, Was quenched in tears! Spain's haughty Constable, - the true And gallant Master, whom we knew Most loved of all. Breathe not a whisper of his pride, - He on the gloomy scaffold died, Ignoble fall! COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 73 The countless treasures of his care, His hamlets green, and cities fair, His mighty power, - What were they all but grief and shame, Tears and a broken heart, when came The parting hour? His other brothers, proud and high, Masters, who, in prosperity, Might rival kings; Who made the bravest and the best The bondsmen of their high behest, Their underlings; What was their prosperous estate, When high exalted and elate With power and pride? What, but a transient gleam of light, A flame, which, glaring at its height, Grew dim and died? 74 TRANSLATIONS. So many a duke of royal name, Marquis and count of spotless fame, And baron brave, That might the sword of empire wield, All these, 0 Death, hast thou concealed In the dark grave! Their deeds of mercy and of arms, In peaceful days, or war's alarms, When thou dost show, O Death, thy stern and angry face, One stroke of thy all-powerful mace Can overthrow. Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh, Pennon and standard flaunting high, And flag displayed; High battlements intrenched around, Bastion, and moated wall, and mound, And palisade, COPLAS DE MANRIQUE, 75 And covered trench, secure and deep,All these cannot one victim keep, O Death, from thee, When thou dost battle in thy wrath, And thy strong shafts pursue their path Unerringly. O World! so few the years we live, Would that the life which thou dost give Were life indeed! Alas! thy sorrows fall so fast, Our happiest hour is when at last The soul is freed. Our days are covered o'er with grief, And sorrows neither few nor brief Veil all in gloom; Left desolate of real good, Within this cheerless solitude No pleasures bloom. 76 TRANSLATIONS. Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, And ends in bitter doubts and fears, Or dark despair; Midway so many toils appear, That he who lingers longest here Knows most of care. Thy goods are bought with many a groan, By the hot sweat of toil alone, And weary hearts; Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, But with a lingering step and slow Its form departs. And he, the good man's shield and shade, To whom all hearts their homage paid, As Virtue's son, — Roderic M/Vanrique,- he whose name Is written on the scroll of Fame, Spain's champion; COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 77 His signal deeds and prowess high Demand no pompous eulogy,Ye saw his deeds! Why should their praise in verse be sung? The name, that dwells on every tongue, No minstrel needs. To friends a friend; —how kind to all The vassals of this ancient hall And feudal fief! To foes how stern a foe was he! And to the valiant and the free How brave a chief! What prudence with the old and wise; What grace in youthful gayeties; In all how sage! Benignant to the serf and slave, He showed the base and falsely brave A lion's rage. 78 TRANSLATIONS. His was Octavian's prosperous star, The rush of Caesar's conquering car At battle's call; His, Scipio's virtue; his, the skill And the indomitable will Of Hannibal. His was a Trajan's goodness, - his A Titus' noble charities And righteous laws; The arm of Hector, and the might Of Tully, to maintain the right In truth's just cause; The clemency of Antonine, Aurelius' countenance divine, Firm, gentle, still; The eloquence of Adrian, And Theodosius' love to man, And generous will; COPLAS DE 1MANRIQUE. 79 Ill tented field and bloody fray, An Alexander's vigorous sway And stern command; The faith of Constantine; ay, more, The fervent love Camillus bore His native land. He left no well-filled treasury, He heaped no pile of riches high, Nor massive plate; He fought the Moors, —and, in their fall, City and tower and castled wall Were his estate. Upon the hard-fought battle-ground, Brave steeds and gallant riders found A common grave; And there the warrior's hand did gain The rents, and the long vassal train, That conquest gave. 8Q TRANSLATIONS. And if, of old, his halls displayed The honored and exalted grade His worth had gained, So, in the dark, disastrous hour, Brothers and bondsmen of his power His hand sustained. After high deeds, not left untold, In the stern warfare, which of old'T was his to share, Such noble leagues he made, that more And fairer regions,than before, His guerdon were. These are the records, half effaced, Which, with the hand of youth, he traced On history's page; But with fresh victories he drew Each fading character anew In his old age. COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 81 By his unrivalled skill, by great And veteran service to the state, By worth adored, He stood, in his high dignity, The proudest knight of chivalry, Knight of the Sword. He found his cities and domains Beneath a tyrant's galling chains And cruel power; But, by fierce battle and blockade, Soon his own banner was displayed From every tower. By the tried valor of his hand, His monarch and his native land Were nobly served; — Let Portugal repeat the story, And proud Castile, who shared the glory His arms deserved. 6 82 TRANSLATIONS. And when so oft, for weal or woe, His life upon the fatal throw Had been cast down; When he had served, with patriot zeal, Beneath the banner of Castile, His sovereign's crown; And done such deeds of valor strong, That neither history nor song Can count them all; Then, on Ocafia's castled rock, Death at his portal came to knock, With sudden call, — Saying, "c Good Cavalier, prepare To leave this world of toil and care With joyful mien; Let thy strong heart of steel this day Put on its armour for the fray,The closing scene. COPLAS DE MIANRIQUE 63 "Since thou hast been, in battle-strife, So prodigal of health and life, For earthly fame, Let virtue nerve thy heart again; Loud on the last stern battle-plain They call thy name. Think not the struggle that draws near Too terrible for man, - nor fear To meet the foe; Nor let thy noble spirit grieve, Its life of glorious fame to leave On1 earth below. A life of honor and of worth Has no eternity on earth,- -'T is but a name; And yet its glory far exceeds That base and sensual life, which leads To want and shame. 84 TRANSLATIONS. "The eternal life, beyond the sky, Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high And proud estate; The soul in dalliance laid, - the spirit Corrupt with sin, - shall not inherit A joy so great. "But the good monk, in cloistered cell, Shall gain it by his book and bell, His prayers and tears; And the brave knight, whose arm endures Fierce battle, and against the Moors His standard rears. And thou, brave knight, whose hand has poured The life-blood of the Pagan horde O'er all the land, In heaven shalt thou receive, at length, The guerdon of thine earthly strength And dauntless hand. COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 85 "Cheered onward by this promise sure, Strong in the faith entire and pure Thou dost profess, Depart, - thy hope is certainty, - The third - the better life on high Shalt thou possess." "0 Death, no more, no more delay; My spirit longs to flee away, And be at rest.; The will of Heaven my will shall be, - I bow to the divine decree, To God's behest. My soul is ready to depart, No thought rebels, the obedient heart Breathes forth no sigh; The wish on earth to linger still Were vain, when't is God's sovereign will That we shall die. 86 TRANSLATIONS.' O thou, that for our sins didst take A human form, and humbly make Thy home on earth; Thou, that to thy divinity A human nature didst ally By mortal birth, "And in that form didst suffer here Torment, and agony, and fear, So patiently; By thy redeeming grace alone, And not for merits of my own, 0, pardon me!" As thus the dying warrior prayed, Without one gathering mist or shade Upon his mind; Encircled by his family, Watched by affection's gentle eye So soft and kind; COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 87 His soul to Him, who gave it, rose; God lead it to its long repose, Its glorious rest! And, though the warrior's sun has set, Its light shall linger round us yet, Bright, radiant, blest.* * This poem of Manrique is a great favorite in Spain. No less than four poetic Glosses, or running commentaries, upon it have been published, no one of which, however, possesses great poetic merit. That of the Carthusian monk, Rodrigo de Valdepeinas, is the best. It ib known as the Glosa del Cartwjo. There is also a prose Commentary by Iuis de Aranda. The following stanzas of the poem were found ir'lhe author's pocket, after his death on the field of battle, " O World! so few the years we live, Would that the life which thou dost give Were life indeed! Alas! thy sorrows fall so fast, Our happiest hour is when at last The soul is freed. 88 TRANSLATIONS. "Our days are covered o'er with grief, And sorrows neither few nor brief Veil all in gloom; Left desolate of real good, Within this cheerless solitude No pleasures bloom.'Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, And ends in bitter doubts and fears, Or dark despair; Midway so many toils appear, That he who lingers longest here Knows most of care. "Thy goods are bought with many a groan, By the hot sweat of toil alone, And weary hearts; Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, But with a lingering step and slow its form departs." 89 THE GOOD SHEPHERD. FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA. SHEPHERD! that with thine amorous, sylvan song Hast broken the slumber which encompassed me,That mad'st thy crook from the accursed tree, On which thy powerful arms were stretched so long! Lead me to mercy's ever-flowing fountains; For thou my shepherd, guard, and guide shalt be; I will obey thy voice, and wait to see Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains. 90 TRANSLATIONS. Hear, Shepherd! - thou who for thy flock art dying, 0, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow. 0, wait! - to thee my weary soul is crying,Wait for me! - Yet why ask it, when I see, With feet nailed to the cross, thou'rt waiting still for me! TO-MORROW. FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA. LORD, what am I, that, with unceasing care, Thou didst seek after me, —that thou didst wait: Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate, And pass the gloomy nights of winter there? O strange delusion!- that I did not greet Thy blest approach, and 0, to Heaven how lost, If my ingratitude's unkindly frost Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet. TRANSILATIONS. How oft my guardian angel gently cried, " Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see How he persists to knock and wait for thee! " And, 0! how often to that voice of sorrow, " To-morrow we will open," I replied, And when the morrow came I answered still," Tomorrow.,' THE NATIVE LAND. FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA. CLEAR fount of light! my native land on high, Bright with a glory that shall never fade! Mansion of truth! without a veil or shade, Thy holy quiet meets the spirit's eye. There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence, Gasping no longer for life's feeble breath; But, sentineled in heaven, its glorious presence'With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not, death. 94 TRANSLATIONS. Beloved country! banished from thy shore, A stranger in this prison-house of clay, The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for thee! Heavenward the bright perfections I adore Direct, and the sure promise cheers the way, That, whither love aspires, there shall my dwelling be. 95 THE IMAGE OF GOD. FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA. 0 LORD! that seest, from yon starry height, Centred in one the future and the past, Fashioned in thine own image, see how fast The world obscures in me what once was bright! Eternal Sun! the warmth which thou hast given, To cheer life's flowery April, fast decays; Yet, in the hoary winter of my days, For ever green shall be my trust in Heaven. 96 TRANELATIONS. Celestial King! 0 let thy presence pass Before my spirit, and an image fair Shall meet that look of mercy from on high, As the reflected image in a glass Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there, And owes its being to the gazer's eye. 97 THE BROOK. FROM THE SPANISH. LAUGH of the mountain! - lyre of bird and tree! Pomp of the meadow! mirror of the morn! The soul of April, unto whom are born The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee! Although, where'er thy devious current strays, The lap of earth with gold and silver teems, To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems Than golden sands, that charm each shepherd's gaze. 7 98 TRANSLATIONS. How without guile thy bosom, all transparent As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles count! How, without malice murmuring, glides thy current! O sweet simplicity of days gone by! Thou shun'st the haunts of man, to dwell in limpid fount! THE CELESTIAL PILOT. FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, II. AND now, behold! as at the approach of morning, Through the gross vapors, Mars grows fiery red Down in the west upon the ocean floor, Appeared to me,- -may I again behold it!A light along the sea, so swiftly coming, Its motion by no flight of wing is equalled. And when therefrom I had withdrawn a little Mine eyes, that I might question my conductor, Again I saw it brighter grown and larger. 100 TRANSLATIONS. Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared I knew not what of white, and underneath, Little by little, there came forth another. iMy master yet had uttered not a word, While the first brightness into wings unfolded; But,when he clearly recognised the pilot, He cried aloud; "Quick, quick, and bow the knee! Behold the Angel of God! fold up thy hands! Henceforward shalt thou see such officers! Cc See, how he scorns all human arguments, So that no oar he wants, nor other sail Than his own wings,between so distant shores! " See, how he holds them, pointed straight to heaven, Fanning the air with the eternal pinions, That do not moult themselves like mortal hair!" THE CELESTIAL PILOT. 101 And then, as nearer and more near us came The Bird of Heaven, more glorious he appeared, So that the eye could not sustain his presence, But down I cast it; and he came to shore With a small vessel, gliding swift and light, So that the water swallowed nought thereof. Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot! Beatitude seemed written in his face! And more than a hundred spirits sat within. " In exitu Israel out of Egypt! " Thus sang they all together in one voice, With whatso in that Psalm is after written. Then made he sign of holy rood upon them, Whereat all cast themselves upon the shore, And he departed swiftly as he came. 102 THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE. FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXVIII. LONGING already to search in and round The heavenly forest, dense and living-green, Which to the eyes tempered the new-born day, Withouten more delay I left the bank, Crossing the level country slowly, slowly, Over the soil, that everywhere breathed fragrance. A gently-breathing air, that no mutation Had in itself, smote me upon the forehead, No heavier blow, than of a pleasant breeze, TIlE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE. 103 Vhereat the tremulous branches readily.Did all of them bow downward towards that side Where its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain; Yet not from their upright direction.bent So that the little birds upon their tops Should cease the practice of their tuneful art; But, with full-throated joy, the hours of prime Singing received they in the midst of foliage That made monotonous burden to their rhymes, Even as from branch to branch it gathering swells, Through the pine forests on the shore of Chiassi, When ]Eolus unlooses the Sirocco. Already my slow steps had led me on Into the ancient wood so far, that I Could see no more the place where I had entered. 104 TRANSLATIONS. And lo! my farther course cut off a river, Which, towards the left hand, with its little waves, Bent down the grass, that on its margin sprang. All waters that on earth most limpid are, Would seem to have within themselves some mixture, Compared with that, which nothing doth conceal, Although it moves on with a brown, brown current, Under the shade perpetual, that never Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon. 105 BEATRICE. FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXX., XXXI. EVEN as the Blessed, in the new covenant, Shall rise up quickened, each one from his grave, Wearing again the garments of the flesh, So, upon that celestial chariot, A hundred rose ad vocene tantz sents, Ministers and messengers of life eternal. They all were saying; " Benedictus qui venis," And scattering flowers above and round about, " JManibus o date lilia plenis." 106 TRANSLATIONS. I once beheld, at the approach of day, The orient sky all stained with roseate hues, And the other heaven with light serene adorned, And the sun's face uprising, overshadowed, So that, by temperate influence of vapors, The eye sustained his aspect for long while; Thus in the bosom of a cloud of flowers, Which from those hands angelic were thrown up, And down descended inside and without, With crown of olive o'er a snow-white veil, Appeared a lady, under a green mantle, Vested in colors of the living flame. * * * * * BEATRICE. 107 Even as the snow, among the living rafters Upon the back of Italy, congeals, Blown on and beaten by Sclavonian winds, And then, dissolving, filters through itself, Whene'er the land, that loses shadow, breathes, Like as a taper melts before a fire, Even such I was, without a sigh or tear, Before the song of those who chime for ever After the chiming of the eternal spheres; But,when I heard in those sweet melodies Compassion for me, more than had they said, "0 wherefore, lady, dost thou thus consume him?" The ice, that was about my heart congealed, To air and water changed, and, in my anguish, Through lips and eyes came gushing from my breast. 108 TRANSLATIONS. Confusion and dismay, together mingled, Forced such a feeble "Yes! " out of my mouth, To understand it one had need of sight. Even as a cross-bow breaks, when't is discharged, Too tensely drawn the bow-string and the bow, And with less force the arrow hits the mark; So I gave way under this heavy burden, Gushing forth into bitter tears and sighs, And the voice, fainting, flagged upon its passage. 109 SPRING. FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES D ORLEANS, XVt. CENTURY. GENTLE Spring! - in sunshine clad, Well dost thou thy power display! For Winter maketh the light heart sad, And thou, - thou makest the sad heart gay. He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train, The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain; And they shrink away, and they flee in fear, When thy merry step draws near. 110 TRANSL, ATIONS. Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old, Their beards of icicles and snow; And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold, We must cower over the embers low; And, snugly housed from the wind and weather, Mope like birds that are changing feather. But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear, When thy merry step draws near. Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud; But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh; Thou tearest away the mournful shroud, And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly, Who has toiled for nought both late and early, Is banished afar by the new-born year, When thy merry step draws near. THE CHILD ASLEEP. FROM THE FRENCH. SWEET babe! true portrait of thy father's face, Sleep on the bosom, that thy lips have pressed! Sleep, little one; and closely, gently place Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast. Upon that tender eye, my little friend, Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me! I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend;-'T is sweet to watch for thee, - alone for thee! 112 TRANSLATIONS. H-is arms fall down; sleep sits upon his brow; His eye is closed; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm. YWore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow, ~Would you not say he slept on Death's cold arm? Awake, my boy! - I tremble with affright! Awake, and chase this fatal thought' Unclose Thine eye but for one moment on the light t Even at the price of thine, give me repose! Sweet error! - he but slept,- I breathe again; — Come, gentle dreams, the hour of'sleep beguile! 0! when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain, Beside me watch to see thy waking smile? THE GRAVE. FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. FOR thee was a house built Ere thou wast born, For thee was a mould meant Ere thou of mother camest. But it is not made ready, Nor its depth measured, Nor is it seen How long it shall be. 114 TRANSLATIONS. Now I bring thee W~here thou shalt be; Now I shall measure thee, And the mould afterwards Thy house is not Highly timbered, It is unhigh and low; When thou art therein, The heel-ways are low, Thle side-ways unhigh. The roof is built Thy breast full nigh, So thou shalt in mould /Dwell full cold, Dimly and dark. Doorless is that house, And dark it is within; THE GRAVE. 115 There thou art fast detained And Death hath the key. Loathsome is that earth-house, And grim within to dwell. There thou shalt dwell, And worms shall divide thee. Thus thou art laid, And leavest thy friends Thou hast no friend, Who will come to thee, Who will ever see How that house pleaseth thee; Who will ever open The door for thee And descend after thee, For soon thou art loathsome And hateful to see. KING CHRISTIAN. A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK. FROM THE DANISH OF JOHANNES EVALD. KING CHRISTIAN stood by the lofty mast In mist and smoke; His sword was hammering so fast, Through Gothic helm and brain it passed; Then sank each hostile hulk and mast, In mist and smoke. " Fly!'" shouted they, C" fly, he who can! Who braves of Denmark's Christian The stroke? " KING CHRISTIAN. 117 Nils Juel gave heed to the tempest's roar, Now is the hour! He hoisted his bl ood-red flag once more, And smote upon the foe full sore, And shouted loud, through the tempest's roar, 1 "Now is the hour!" "Fly!" shouted they, " for shelter fly! Of Denmark's Juel who can defy The power?" North Sea! a glimpse of Wessel rent Thy murky sky! Then champions to thine arms were sent; Terror and Death glared where he went; From the waves was heard a wail, that rent Thy murky sky! From Denmark, thunders Tordenskiol', Let each to Heaven commend his soul, And fly l 18 TRANSLATIONS. Path of the Dane to fame and might Dark-rolling wave! Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight, Goes to meet danger with despite, Proudly as thou the tempest's might, Dark-rolling wave! And amid pleasures and alarms, And war and victory, be thine arms My grave! * Nils Juel was a celebrated Danish Admiral, and Peder Wessel, a Vice-Admiral, who for his great prowess received the popular title of Tordenskiold, or Thunder-shield. In childhood he was a tailor's apprentice, and rose to his high rank before the age of twenty-eight, when he was killed in a duel. THE HAPPIEST LAND. FRAGMENT OF A MODERN BALLAD. FROM THE GERMAN. THERE sat one day in quiet, By an alehouse on the Rhine, Four hale and hearty fellows, And drank the precious wine. The landlord's daughter filled their cups, Around the rustic board; Then sat they all so calm and still, And spake not one rude word. 120 TRANSLATIONS. But,when the maid departed, A Swabian raised his hand, And cried, all hot and flushed with wine, "Long live the Swabian land!' The greatest kingdom upon earth Cannot with that compare; With all the stout and hardy men And the nut-brown maidens there." " Ha! " cried a Saxon, laughing, - And dashed his beard with wine; " I had rather live in Lapland, Than that Swabian land of thine! " The goodliest land on all this earth, It is the Saxon land! There have I as many maidens As fingers on this hand! THE HAPPIEST LAND. 12'1 "Hold your tongues! both Swabian and Saxon!" A bold Bohemian cries; " If there's a heaven upon this earth, In Bohemia it lies. " There the tailor blows the flute, And the cobler blows the horn, And the miner blows the bugle, Over mountain gorge and bourn." And then the landlord's daughter Up to heaven raised her hand, And said, " Ye may no more contend, — There lies the happiest land! " 122 THE WAVE. FROM THE GERMAN OF TIEDGE. " WHITHER, thou turbid wave? Whither, with so much haste, As if a thief wert thou?" " I am the Wave of Life, Stamed with my margin's dust; From the struggle and the strite Of the narrow stream I fly To the Sea's immensity, To wash from me the slime Of the muddy banks of Time." 123 THE DEAD. FROM THE GERMAN OF KLOPSTOCR. How they so softly rest, All, all the holy dead, Unto whose dwelling-place Now doth my soul draw near! How they so softly rest, All in their silent graves, Deep to corruption Slowly down-sinking 124 TRANSLATIONS. And they no longer weep, Here, where complaint is still! And they no longer feel, Here, where all gladness flies! And, by the cypresses Softly o'ershadowed, Until the Angel Calls them, they slumber! 125 THE BIRD AND THE SHIP. FROM THE GERMAN OF MULLER.' THE rivers rush into the sea, By castle and town they go; The winds behind them merrily Their noisy trumpets blow. " The clouds are passing far and high, We little birds in them play; And every thing, that can sing and fly, Goes with us, and far away. 126 TRANSLATIONS. " I greet thee, bonny boat! Whither, or whence, With thy fluttering golden band? ""c I greet thee, little bird! To the wide sea I haste from the narrow land. " Full and swollen is every sail; I see no longer a hill, I have trusted all to the sounding gale, And it will not let me stand still. " And wilt thou, little bird, go with us? Thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall, For full to sinking is my house WVith merry companions all."' — cc I need not and seek not company, Bonny boat, I can sing all alone; For the mainmast tall too heavy am I, Bonny boat, I have wings of my own. THE BIRD AND THE SHIP. 127 " High over the sails, high over the mast, Who shall gainsay these joys? When thy merry companions are still, at last, Thou shalt hear the sound of my voice. "Who neither may rest, nor listen hlay, God bless them every one! I dart away, in the bright blue day, And the golden fields of the sun. "Thus do I sing my weary song, Wherever the four winds blow; And this same song, my whole life long, Neither Poet nor Printer may know." 123 WHITHER? FROM THE GERMAN OF MULLER. I HEARD a brooklet gushing From its rocky fountain near, Down into the valley rushing, So fresh and wondrous clear. I know not what came o'er me, Nor who the counsel gave; But I must hasten downward, All with my pilgrim-stave; WHITHER? 129 Downward, and ever farther, And ever the brook beside; And ever fresher murmured, And ever clearer, the tide. Is this the way I was going? Whither, 0 brooklet, say! Thou hast, with thy soft murmur, Murmured my senses away. What do I say of a murmur? That can no murmur be;'T is the water-nymphs, that are singing Their roundelays under me. Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur, And wander merrily near; The wheels of a mill are going In every brooklet clear. 9 130 BEWARE! FROM THE GERMAN. I KNOW a maiden fair to see, Take care! She can both false and friendly be, Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee! She has two eyes, so soft and brown, Take care! She gives a side-glance and looks down, Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee! BEWARES 131 And she, has hair of a golden hue, Take care! And what she says, it is not true, Beware! Beware Trust her not, She is fooling thee! She has a bosom as white as snow, Take care! She knows how much it is best to show, Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee! She gives thee a garland woven fair, Take care! It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear, Beware! - Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee! 132 SONG OF THE BELL. FROM THE GERMAN. BELL! thou soundest merrily, When the bridal party To the church doth hie! Bell! thou soundest solemnly, When, on Sabbath morning, Fields deserted lie! Bell! thou soundest merrily; Tellest thou at evening, Bed-time draweth nigh! Bell! thou soundest mournfully Tellest thou the bitter Parting hath gone by! SONG OF THE BELL. 133 Say! how canst thou mourn? How canst thou rejoice? Thou art but metal dull And yet all our sorrowings, And all our rejoicings, Thou dost feel them all! God hath wonders many, Which we cannot fathom, Placed within thy form! When the heart is sinking, Thou alone canst raise it, Trembling in the storm! 134 THE CASTLE BY THE SEA. FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. " HAST thou seen that lordly castle, That Castle by the Sea? Golden and red above it The clouds float gorgeously. "And fain it would stoop downward To the mirrored wave below; And fain it would soar upward In the evening's crimson glow." THE CASTLE BY THE SEA. 135 " Well have I seen that castle, That Castle by the Sea, And the moon above it standing, And the mist rise solemnly." " The winds and the waves of ocean, Had they a merry chime? Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers, The harp and the minstrel's rhyme?"' The winds and the waves of ocean, They rested quietly, But I heard on the gale a sound of wail, And tears came to mine eye." " And sawest thou on the turrets The King and his royal bride? And the wave of their crimson mantles? And the golden crown of pride? 1 36 TRANSLATIONS. " Led they not forth, in rapture, A beauteous maiden there? Resplendent as the morning sun, Beaming with golden hair? "''" Well saw I the ancient parents, Without the crown of pride; They were moving slow, in weeds of woe, No maiden was by their side!" 137 THE BLACK KNIGHT. FROM THE GERMAN OF UMLAND.'T WAS Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness, When woods and fields put off all sadness. Thus began the King and spake; " So from the halls Of ancient Hofburg's walls, A luxuriant Spring shall break." Drums and trumpets echo loudly, Wave the crimson banners proudly. From balcony the King looked on; In the play of spears, Fell all the cavaliers, Before the monarch's stalwart son. 138 TRANSLATIONS. To the barrier of the fight Rode at last a sable Knight. " Sir Knight! your name and scutcheon, say " "Should I speak it here, Ye would stand aghast with fear; I am a Prince of mighty sway! " When he rode into the lists, The arch of heaven grew black with mists, And the castle'gan to rock. At the first blow, Fell the youth from saddle-bow, Hardly rises from the shock. Pipe and viol call the dances, Torch-light through the high halls glances; Waves a mighty shadow in; With manner bland Doth ask the maiden's hand, Doth with her the dance begin; THE BLACK KNIGHT. 139 Danced in sable iron sark, Danced a measure weird and dark, Coldly clasped her limbs around. From breast and hair Down fall from her the fair Flowerets, faded, to the ground. To the sumptuous banquet came Every Knight and every Dame.'Twixt son and daughter all distraught, With mournful mind The ancient King reclined, Gazed at them in silent thought. Pale the children both did look, But the guest a beaker took; " Golden wine will make you whole! " The children drank, Gave many a courteous thank;' O that draught was very cool!" 140 TRANSLATIONS. Each the father's breast embraces, Son and daughter; and their faces Colorless grow utterly. Whichever way Looks the fear-struck father gray, He beholds his children die. " Woe! the blessed children both Takest thou in the joy of youth; Take me, too, the joyless father! Spake the grim Guest, From his hollow, cavernous breast, " Roses in the spring I gather!" 141 SONG OF THE SILENT LAND. FROM THE GERMAN OF SALIS. INTO the Silent Land! Ah! who shall lead us thither? Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. Who leads us with a gentle hand Thither, 0 thither, Into the Silent Land? Into the Silent Land! To you, ye boundless regions Of all perfection! Tender morning-visions 142 TRAN SLATIONS. Of beauteous souls! The Future's pledge and band! Who in Life's battle firm doth stand, Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms Into the Silent Land! OLand!'OLand! For all the broken-hearted The mildest herald by our fate allotted, Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand To lead us with a gentle hand Into the land of the great Departed, Into the Silent Land! 143 L'ENVOI. YE voices, that arose After the Evening's close, And whispered to my restless heart repose! Go, breathe it in the ear Of all who doubt and fear, And say to them, " Be of good cheer!" Ye sounds, so low and calm, That in the groves of balm Seemed to me like an angel's psalm! 144 L'ENVOI. Go, mingle yet once more With the perpetual roar Of the pine forest, dark and hoar! Tongues of the dead, not lost, But speaking from death's frost, Like fiery tongues at Pentecost! Glimmer, as funeral lamps, Amid the chills and damps Of the vast plain where Death encamps! BALLADS AN D OTHER POEMS. 1842. 10 PREFACE. THERE is one poem in this volume, in reference to which a few introductory remarks may be useful. It is The Children of the Lord's Supper, from the Swedis'n of Bishop Tegner; a poem which enjoys no inconsiderable reputation in the North of Europe, and for its beauty and simplicity merits the attention of English readers. It is an Idyl, descriptive of scenes in a Swedish village; and belongs to the same class of poems, as the Luise of Voss and the Hernzann und Dorothea of G6the. But the Swedish Poet has been 148 PREFACE. guided by a surer taste, than his German predecessors. His tone is pure and elevated; and he rarely, if ever, mistakes what is trivial for what is simple. There is something patriarchal still lingering about rural life in Sweden, which renders it a fit theme for song. Almost primeval simplicity reigns over that Northern land, — almost primeval solitude and stillness. You pass out from the gate of the city, and, as if by magic, the scene changes to a wild, woodland landscape. Around you are forests of fir. Over head hang the long, fan-like branches, trailing with moss, and heavy with red and blue cones. Under foot is a carpet of yellow leaves; and the air is warm and balmy. On a wooden bridge you cross a little silver stream; and anon'come forth into a pleasant and sunny- land of farms. Wooden fences PREFACE. 149 divide the adjoining fields. Across the road are gates, which are opened by troops of children. The peasants take off their hats as you pass; you sneeze, and they cry, "God bless you." The houses in the villages and smaller towns are all built of hewn timber, and for the most part painted red. The floors of the taverns are strewn with the fragrant tips of fir boughs. In many villages there are no taverns, and the peasants take turns in receiving travellers. The thrifty housewife shows you into the best chamber, the walls of which are hung round with rude pictures from the Bible; and brings you her heavy silver spoons, - an heirloom, - to dip the curdled milk from the pan. You have oaten cakes baked some months before; or bread with anise-seed and coriander in it, or perhaps a little pine bark. Meanwhile the sturdy husband has brought 150 PREFACE. his horses from the plough, and harnessed them to your carriage. Solitary travellers come and go in uncouth one-horse chaises. Most of them have pipes in their mouths, and hanging around their necks in front, a leather wallet, in which they carry tobacco, and the great bank notes of the country, as large as your two hands. You meet, also, groups of Dalekarlian peasant women, travelling homeward or town-ward in pursuit of work. They walk barefoot, carrying in their hands their shoes, which have high heels under the hollow of the foot, and soles of birch bark. Frequent, too, are the village churches, standing by the road-side, each in its own little garden of Gethsemane. In the parish register great events are doubtless recorded. Some old king was christened or buried in that church; and a little sexton, with a rusty PREFACE. 151 key, shows you the baptismal font, or the coffin. In the church-yard are a few flowers, and much green grass; and daily the shadow of the church spire, with its long tapering finger, counts the tombs, representing a dialplate of human life, on which the hours and minutes are the graves of men. The stones are flat, and large, and low, and perhaps sunken, like the roofs of old houses. On some are armorial bearings; on others only the initials of the poor tenants, with a date, as on the- roofs of Dutch cottages. They all sleep with their heads to the westward. Each held a lighted taper in his hand when he died; and in his coffin were placed his little hearttreasures, and a piece of money for his last journey. Babes that came lifeless into the world were carried in the arms of gray-haired old men to the only cradle they ever slept in; 152 PREFACE. and in the shroud of the dead mother were laid the little garments of the child, that lived and died in her bosom. And over this scene the village pastor looks from his window in the stillness of midnight, and says in his heart, "How quietly they rest, all the departed!" Near the church-yard gate stands a poorbox, fastened to a post by iron bands, and secured by a padlock, with a sloping wooden roof to keep off the rain. If it be Sunday, the peasants sit on the church steps and con their psalmn-books. Others are coming down the road with their beloved pastor, who talks to them of holy things from beneath his broad-brimmed hat. Ite speaks of fields and harvests, and of the parable of the sower, that went forth to sow. He leads them to the Good Shepherd, and to the pleasant pastures PREFACE. 153 of the spirit-land. He is their patriarch, and, like Melchizedek, both priest and king, though he has no other throne than the church pulpit. The women carry psalm-books in their hands, wrapped in silk handkerchiefs, and listen devoutly to the good man's words. But the young men, like Gallio, care for none of these things. They are busy counting the plaits in the kirtles of the peasant girls, their number being an indication of the wearer's wealth. It may end in a wedding. I will endeavour to describe a village wedding in Sweden. It shall be in summer time, that there may be flowers, and in a southern province, that the bride may be fair. The early song of the lark and of chanticleer are mingling in the clear morning air, and the sun, the heavenly bridegroom with golden locks, arises in the east, just as our earthly 154 PREFACE. bridegroom with yellow hair, arises in the south. In the yard there is a sound of voices and trampling of hoofs, and horses are led forth and saddled. The steed that is to bear the bridegroom has a bunch of flowers upon his forehead, and a garland of corn-flowers around his neck. Friends from the neighbouring farms come riding in, their blue cloaks streaming to the wind; and finally the happy bridegroom, with a whip in his hand, and a monstrous nosegay in the breast of his black jacket, comes forth from his chamber; and then to horse and away, towards the village where the bride already sits and waits. Foremost rides the Spokesman, followed by some half dozen village musicians. Next comes the bridegroom between his two groomsmen, and then forty or fifty friends and wedding guests, half of them perhaps with pistols PREFACE. 155 and guns in their hands. A kind of baggagewagon brings up the rear, laden with food and drink for these merry pilgrims. At the entrance of every village stands a triumphal arch, adorned with flowers and ribands and evergreens; and as they pass beneath it the wedding guests fire a salute, and the whole procession stops. And straight from every pocket flies a black-jack, filled with punch or brandy. It is passed from hand to hand among the crowd; provisions are brought from the wagon, and after eating and drinking and hurrahing, the procession moves forward again, and at length draws near the house of the bride. Four heralds ride forward to announce that a knight and his attendants are in the neighbouring forest, and pray for hospitality. "' How many are you?" asks the bride's father. a' At least three hundred," is the answer; and to 156 PREFACE. this the host replies, "Yes; were you seven times as many, you should all be welcome; and in token thereof receive this cup." Whereupon each herald receives a can of ale; and soon after the whole jovial company comes storming into the farmer's yard, and, riding round the May-pole, which stands in the centre, alights amid a grand salute and flourish of music. In the hall sits the bride, with a crown upon her head and a tear in her eye, like the Virgin Mary in old church paintings. She is dressed in a red boddice and kirtle, with loose linen sleeves. There is a gilded belt around her waist; and around her neck strings of golden beads, and a golden chain. On the crown rests a wreath of wild roses, and below it another of cypress. Loose over her shoulders falls her flaxen hair; and her blue inno PREFACR.. 157 cent eyes are fixed upon the ground. 0 thou good soul! thou hast hard hands, but a soft heart! Thou art poor. The very ornaments thou wearest are not thine. They have been hired for this great day. Yet art thou rich; rich in health, rich in hope, rich in thy first, young, fervent love. The blessing of heaven be upon thee! So thinks the parish priest, as he joins together the hands of bride and bridegroom, saying in deep, solemn tones, -" I give thee in marriage this damsel, to be thy wedded wife in all honor, and to share the half of thy bed, thy lock and key, and every third penny which you two may possess, or may inherit, and all the rights which Upland's laws provide, and the holy king Erik gave." The dinner is now served, and the bride sits between the bridegroom and the priest. The Spokesman delivers an oration after the 158 PREFACE. ancient custom of his fathers. He interlards it well with quotations from the Bible; and invites the Saviour to be present at this marriage feast, as he was at the marriage feast in Cana of Galilee. The table is not sparingly set forth. Each makes a long arm, and the feast goes cheerly on. Punch and brandy pass round between the courses, and here and there a pipe is smoked, while waiting for the next dish. They sit long at table; but, as all things must have an end, -'so must a Swedish dinner. Then the dance begins. It is led off by the bride and the priest, who perform a solemn minuet together. Not till after midnight comes the Last Dance. The girls form a ring around the bride, to keep her from the hands of the married women, who endeavour to break through the magic circle, and seize their new sister. After long struggling they PREFACE. 159 succeed; and the crown is taken from her head and the jewels from her neck, and her boddice is unlaced and her kirtle taken off; and like a vestal virgin clad all in white she goes, but it is to her marriage chamber, not to her grave; and the wedding guests follow her with lighted candles in their hands. And this is a village bridal. Nor must I forget the suddenly changing seasons of the Northern clime. There is no long and lingering spring, unfolding leaf and blossom one by one; -no long and lingering autumn, pompous with many-colored leaves and the glow of Indian summers. But winter and summer are wonderful, and pps into each other. The quail has hardly ceased piping in the corn, when winter from the folds of trailing clouds sows broad-cast over the laind snow, icicles, and rattling hail. The days 160 PREFACE. wane apace. Ere long the sun hardly rises above the horizon, or does not rise at all. The moon and the stars shine through the day; only, at noon, they are pale and wan, and in the southern sky a red, fiery glow, as of sunset, burns along the horizon, and then goes out. And pleasantly under the silver moon, and under the silent, solemn stars, ring the steel-shoes of the skaters on the frozen sea, and voices, and the sound of bells. And now the Northern Lights begin to burn, faintly at first, like sunbeams playing in the waters of the blue sea. Then a soft crimson glow tinges the heavens. There is a blush on:,,the cheek of night. The colors come and go; and change from crimson to gold, from gold to crimson. The snow is stained with rosy light. Twofold from the zenith, east and west, flames a fiery sword; PREFACE. 161 and a broad band passes athwart the heavens, like a summer sunset. Soft purple clouds come sailing over the sky, and through their vapory folds the winking stars shine white as silver. With such pomp as this is Merry Christmas ushered in, though only a single star heralded the first Christmas. And in memory of that day the Swedish peasants dance on straw; and the peasant girls throw straws at the timbered roof of the hall, and -for every one that sticks in a crack shall a groomsman come to their wedding. Merry Christmas indeed! For pious souls there shall be church songs and sermons, but for Swedish peasants, brandy and nut brown ale in wooden bowls; and the great Yulecake crowned with a cheese, and garlanded with apples, and upholding a three-armed candlestick over the Christmas feast. They may tell tales, 11 162 PREFACE. too, of J6ns Lundsbracka, and Lunkenfus, and the great Riddar Finke of Pingsdaga.* And now the glad, leafy mid-summer, full of blossoms and the song of nightingales, is come! Saint John has taken the flowers and festival of heathen Balder; and in every village there is a May-pole fifty feet high, with wreaths and roses and ribands streaming in the wind, and a noisy weathercock on top, to tell the village whence the wind cometh and whither it goeth. The sun does not set till ten o'clock at night; and the children are at play in the streets an hour later. The windows and doors are all open, and you may sit and read till midnight without a candle. 0 how beautiful is the summer night, which is not night, but a sunless yet unclouded day, descending upon earth with dews, and shad* Titles of Swedish popular tales. PREFACE. 163 ows, and refreshing coolness! How beautiful the long, mild twilight, which like a silver clasp unites to-day with yesterday! How beautiful the silent hour, when Morning and Evening thus sit together, hand in hand, beneath the starless sky of midnight! From the church-tower in the public square the bell tolls the hour, with a soft, musical chime; and the watchman, whose watch-tower is the belfry, blows a blast in his horn, for each stroke of the hammer, and four times, to the four corners of the heavens, in a sonorous voice he chaunts, - "Ho! watchman, ho! Twelve is the clock! God keep our town From fire and brand And hostile hand! Twelve is the clock!" From his swallow's nest in the belfry he can see the sun all night long; and farther north 164 PREFACE, the priest stands at his door in the warm midnight, and lights his pipe with a common burning glass. I trust that these remarks will not be deemed irrelevant to the poem, but will lead to a clearer understanding of it. The translation is literal, perhaps to a fault. In no instance have I done the author a wrong, by introducing into his work any supposed improvements or embellishments of my own. I have preserved even the measure; that inexorable hexameter, in which, it must be confessed, the motions of the English Muse are not unlike those of a prisoner dancing to the music of his chains; and perhaps, as Dr. Johnson said of the dancing dog, "the wonder is not that she should do it so well, but that she should do it at all." Esaias Tegner, the author of this poem, was born in the parish of By in Wiirmland, in the PREFACE. 165 year 1782. In 1799 he entered the University of Lund, as a student; and in 1812 was appointed Professor of Greek in that institution. In 1824 he became Bishop of Wexi6, which office he still holds. He stands first among all the poets of Sweden, living or dead. His principal work is Frithiofs Saga; one of the most remarkable poems of the age. This modern Scald has written his name in immortal runes. He is the glory and boast of Sweden; a prophet, honored in his own country, and adding one more to the list of great names, that adorn her history. 1841. BALLADS. 169 THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR. [THE following Ballad was suggested to me while riding on the seashore at Newport. A year or two previous a skeleton had been dug up at Fall River, clad in broken and corroded armour; and the idea occurred to me of connecting it with the Round Tower at Newport, generally known hitherto as the Old Wind-Mill, though now claimed by the Danes as a work of their early ancestors. Professor Rafn, in the MJmoires de la Soci&t6 Royale des Antiquaires du Nord, for 1838-1839, says;'" There is no mistaking in this instance the style in which the more ancient stone edifices of the North were constructed, the style which belongs to the Roman or Ante-Gothic architecture, and which, especially after the time of Charlemagne, diffused itself from Italy over the whole of the West and North of Europe, where it continued to predominate 170 BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. until the close of the 12th century; that style, which some authors have, from one of its most striking characteristics, called the round arch style, the same which in England is denominated Saxon and sometimes Norman architecture. " On the ancient structure in Newport there are no ornaments remaining, which might possibly have served to guide us in assigning the probable date of its erection. That no vestige whatever is found of the pointed arch, nor any approximation to it, is indicative of an earlier rather than of a later period./ From such characteristics as remain, however, we can scarcely form any other inference than one, in which I am persuaded that all, who are familiar with Old-Northern architecture, will concur, THAT THIS BUILDING WAS ERECTED AT A PERIOD DECIDEDLY NOT LATER THAN THE 12TH CENTURY. This remark applies, of course, to the original building only, and not to the alterations that it subsequently received; for there are several such alterations in the upper part of the building which cannot be mistaken, and which were most likely occasioned by its being adapted in modern times to various uses, for example as the substructure of a wind-mill, and latterly as a hay magazine. To the same times may be referred the windows, the fire-place, and the apertures made above the columns. That this building THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR. 171 could not have been erected for a wind-mill, is what an archi tect will easily discern." I will not enter into a discussion of the point. It is sufficiently well established for the purpose of a ballad; though doubtless many an honest citizen of Newport, who has passed his days within sight of the Round Tower, will be ready to exclaim with Sancho; " God bless me! did I not warn you to have a care of what you were doing, for that it was nothing but a wind-mill; and nobody could mistake it, but one who had the like in his head.' ] " SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest! Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armour drest, Comest to daunt me!'Wrapt not in Eastern balms, But with thy fleshless palms Stretched, as if asking alms, Why dost thou haunt me?" 172 BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. Then, from those cavernous eyes Pale flashes seemed to rise, As when the Northern skies Gleam in December; And, like the water's flow Under December's snow, Came a dull voice of woe From the heart's chamber. c; I was a Viking old! My deeds, though manifold, No Skald in song has told, No Saga taught thee! Take heed, that in thy verse Thou dost the tale rehearse, Else dread a dead man's curse! For this I sought thee. THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR. 173 "Far in the Northern Land, By the wild Baltic's strand, I, with my childish hand, Tamed the ger-falcon; And, with my skates fast-bound, Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, That the poor whimpering hound Trembled to walk on. "Oft to his frozen lair Tracked I the grisly bear, While from my path the hare Fled like a shadow; Oft through the forest dark Followed the were-wolf's bark, Until the soaring lark Sang from the meadow. 174 BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. CBut when I older grew, Joining a corsair's crew, O'er the dark sea I flew With the marauders. Wild was the life we led; MIany the souls that sped, Many the hearts that bled, By our stern orders. Many a wassail-bout Wore the long Winter out; Often our midnight shout Set the cocks crowing, As we the Berserk's tale Measured in cups of ale, Draining the oaken pail, Filled to o'erflowing. THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR. 175 " Once as I told in glee Tales of the stormy sea, Soft eyes did gaze on me, Burning yet tender; And as the white stars shine On the dark Norway pine, On that dark heart of mine Fell their soft splendor.: I wooed the blue-eyed maid, Yielding, yet half afraid, And in the forest's shade Our vows were plighted. Under its loosened vest Fluttered her little breast, Like birds within their nest By the hawk frighted. 176 BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. "c Bright in her father's hall Shields gleamed upon the wall, Loud sang the minstrels all, Chaunting his glory; When of old Hildebrand I asked his daughter's hand, Mute did the minstrels stand To hear my story. "While the brown ale he quaffed, Loud then the champion laughed, And as the wind-gusts waft The sea-foam brightly, So the loud laugh of scorn, Out of those lips unshorn, From the deep drinking-horn Blew the foam lightly. THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR. 177 "' She was a Prince's child, I but a Viking wild, And though she blushed and smiled, I was discarded Should not the dove so white Follow the sea-mew's flight, Why did they leave that night Her nest unguarded?