[Go ie nag tt gp ARIA tT Sige ee Re gerbe ; 3 + $ J { $ Wee AED SOOT INET kg etree Ef Se . newt Sect tet: ny Me Rape gare RE eo teat SR a er ee eee Sse UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA BRAR | WL _ X032040005 ip Sd de ee ee sae: FP ~*~ re a eltering ie tet ea es Dare te Cyrawaes te Be ein eee aN Sma : { if ) RoeLIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA PRESENTED BY MiSS EUGENTE HUBBARD‘Ss of ated (g to Ts vlish ‘; are POE T/l CA@iy WORKS ta Or Longiciiow. Henry WadsworthLghae fa THE CHANDOS “Gl ASSICS. THe POETICAL WORKS H uoCONTENTS. BIRDS OF PASSAGE.—FLIGHUT THE FIRST—contenued. 2 | THE ROPEWALE . : : ° THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE. CATAWBA WINE SANTA FROMENA THE DISCOVERER OW THE -NORTH CAPE DAYBREAK THRE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ CHILDREN SANDALPHON EPIMETHEUS, OR THE PCGET’S AFTERTHOUGHT FLIGHT THE SECOND. THE CHILDREN'S HOUR .. c : ENCELADUS . ; é ‘ 3 ‘ 3 ‘ THE CUMBERLAND : : ; : 3 : SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE : p 3 : SNOW-FLAKES 5 : ; ‘ A 3 : A DAY OF SUNSHINE. : , 5 WEARINESS . , G ‘ ; 5 ¢ THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH: THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH TALES°*OP A WAYSIDE INN. PRELUDE : THE LANDLORD'S TALE INTERLUDE : : : : THE STUDENTS TALE : i 5 INTERLUDE 5 : ; ‘: : : ; SPANISH JEWS TALE. ; : 5 ; INTERLUDE THe SICILIANS TALE. INTERLUDE . : : : ; : Tup MUSICIAN'S TALE : ; ; INTERLUDE : ‘ : : ‘es CHROLOGIAN S JUAUE. . : : - ; INTERLUDE : : 5 c : ‘ hag-Porrs, TALE : : 3 ; ‘ - FINALE : 3 ° 5 ; e TH . ° ° 435 : 435 f: 430 ° : «+ 492 ° ° 493 : . : 526 e ° 2 e528 meee ies ys PAGE ° ° : = 405 ° ° ° ° . ° ° ° &_A ABA by Pt ot Oy Ou Ou oN 4 a NO a ° BS 0 \O te ©) coCONTENTS. TRANSLATIONS. PAGE COPLAS DE MANRIQUE . 5 ula THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S THE GOOD SHEPHERD. 2. 548 SUPPER . : a ‘TO-MORROW : - : 2 546 ‘THE STATUE OVER GHP THE NATIVE LAND . : ; 549 CATHEDRAL DOOR. : THE IMAGE OF GOD. 549 | dae HewmLock TkEe THE BROOK : : - 550 | ANNIE OF THARAW . : THE CELESTIAL Prior : ~ 550 | Dub IVEGEND OF THE Cross- THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE . 551 STE es BEATRICE . : : : s i552 POETIC pecs SPRING : : : f 554: THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS THE CHILD eae : ; ~-555 1) Dap BLIND GIR Of ASTEL- THE BIRD AND THE SHIP. IMOS55 CUILLE KING CHRISTIAN : : - 550 | Dae UGK OF EpeMsny THE GRAVE : : 3 > 557 | Dee EVperep KNienEe THE WAVE ; ‘ » 558 | DiviNA COMMEDIA THE HAPPIEST LAND j 7 556 CONSOLATION . 4 i ; WHITHER ?. . ‘ ° - 559 | THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD . BEWARE! . ‘ . oe a 560 My SECRET . 3 : SONG OF THE BELL . ; . 3500 REMORSE THE DEAD : : : . 562 | WANDERER'S NIGHT- SONGS THE CASTLE BY THE SEA — SOL THE FUGITIVE THE BLACK KNIGHT : a 502 THE BOY AND THE Bron SONG OF THE SILENT LAND . 563 HiEREE CANDTOs OF DANTE S PARADISO. SANTO XXII. 4 - 504 CANTO XXIV. ~ 598 CANTO XXV. CHILDHOOD . ‘ pe : ‘ . ‘ : A. CHRISTMAS Cae : : : ; : LATEST ORIGINAL POEMS. LADY WENTWORTH . : : : : : : . ‘ . Tine BARON OF ST. CASTINE ©. j ; : ‘ ‘ : , THE BALLAD OF CARMILHAN 592 610 611 611 612 615 602VOICES OF THE NIGHT. Vlora, worvia vvé, brvoddtepa THY TOAUTOVWY BOOTMY, Boe Bd0ev 10" wore pOrE KATATTEDOC "Ayapepvovioy ext Oopoy’ jd yao ahyéwy, VTO TE CUPHONAES diory oped’, otxoueOa. EURIPIDES- PRELUDE. PLEASANT it was, when woods were green, And winds were soft and low, To lie amidst 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. 3eneath some patriarchal mee [ 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.VOM CUTS Oe Megs ING And dreams of that which cannot die, Bright visions, came to me, As lapped in thought I used to lie, And gaze into the summer sky, Where the sailing clouds went by, Like ships upon the sea ; Dreams that the soul of youth engage Ere Fancy has been quelled ; Old legends of the monkish page. Traditions of the saint and sage, Tales that have the rime of agé, 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. The green trees whispered low and mild ; It was a sound of joy! They were my playmates when a child, And rocked me in their arms so wild ! Still they looked at me and smiled, As if I were a boy; And ever whispered, mild and low, “Come, be a child once more!”’ And waved their long arms to and fro, And beckoned solemnly and slow ; Oh, I could not choose but go Into the woodlands hoar ; . Into the blithe and breathing air, Into the solemn wood, Solemn and silent everywhere !PRES ODL, Nature with folded hands seemed there, Kneeling at her evening prayer ! Like one in prayer I stood. Refore me rose an avenue Of tall and sombrous pines ; Abroad their fan-like branches grew, And, where the sunshine darted through, Spread a vapour soft and blue, In long and sloping lines. And, falling on my weary brain Like a fast-falling shower, The dreams of youth came back again, Low lispings of the summer rain, Dropping on the ripened grain, As once upon the flower. Visions of childhood! Stay, oh stay! Ye were so sweet and wild! And distant voices seemed to say, “Tt cannot be! They pass away ! Other themes demand thy lay ; Thou art no more a child! «The land of song within thee lies, Watered by living 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 cin Of iron branches sounds ! A mighty river roars between, And whosoever looks therein, Sees the heaven all black with sin,— Sees not its depths, nor bounds.VOTO SOT THE, INI Git 1, “ 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.” epee HYMN TO THE NIGHT. ‘Aoracin, TpidAtoToc. I neEarpD 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. T heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, ‘The manifold, soft chimes, That fill the haunted chambers of the N ight, Like some old poet’s rhymes. From the cool cisterns of the midnight air My spirit drank repose ; The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,— | From those deep cisterns flows. ; . i O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear a 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 flicht, The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, The best beloved Nicht!ASRSABM “Of IEEE, A, PSALM OF LIFE. WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. TELL me not, in mournful numbers, “‘ Life is but an empty dream !”’ For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest ! And the grave is not its goal; “‘ Dust thou art, to dust returnest, ” Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way ; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world’s broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! Be a hero in the strife! 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 ! 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.VOIGES OF GAE(NIGA T. Let us, then, be up and doing With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to-wait. FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. Wuewn the hours of Day are numbered, And the voices of the Night Wake the better soul, that slumbered, To a holy, calm delight ; Ere the evening lamps are lighted, And, like phantoms grim and tall, Shadows from the fitful fire-light Dance upon the parlour wall ; Then the forms of the departed Enter at the open door ; The beloved, the true-hearted, Come to visit me once more; He, the young and strong, who cherished Noble longings for the strife, By the road-side fell and 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, a i i Who unto my youth was given . More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine.THE REAPER AND THE. FEOWERS., And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyés Like the stars, so still and saint- lsesy Looking downward from thie skie Uttered not, yet comprehended, Is the spirit’s voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, Breathing from her lips Of air. O, though oft depress’d and lonely, All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died! THE REAPER AND TEE Ow BRS. Tuere 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 Our the bearded grain ? Though the Breath of these flowers | is sweet t Iw Alt give them all back again.’ He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, He kissed their drooping leaves ; It was for the Lord of Paradise He bound them in his sheaves. “My Lord has need of these flowerets gay, The Reaper said, and smiled ; « Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where he was once achild. “ They shall all bloom in fields of light, Transplanted by my care, And saints, upon their garments white. These sacred blogsorits wear.”VOLCTSS VOL STALE UNI OE: 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. Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath, The Reaper came that day; "Twas an angel visited the green earth, And took the flowers away. THE LIGHT OF STARS Tue night is come, but not too soon; i 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 ; A 2 the first watch of night j is given Yo the red planet Mars. Is it the tender star of love? ‘The star of love and dreams? Oh, no! from that blue tent above, A hero’s armour gleams. And earnest thoughts within me rise, When I beHoIn: afar, a in the evening skies, he shield of that ede Siar O star of strength! I see thee stand And smile upon my pain ; Thou beckonest with thy mailéd hand And I am strong again. ——* Within my breast there is no light, But the cold light of stars give the first watch of the night "Ws the red planet Mars, kadFLOWERS. The star of the unconguered 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. Oh, 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. 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 earth’s firmament do shine. Stars they are, wherein we read our history, As astrologers and seers of eld ; Yet not wrapped about with ae mystery, Like the burning stars, which they beheld. Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, God hath written in those stars above ; But not less in the bright flowerets under us Stands the revelation of his love. Bright and glorious is that revelation, Written all over this great world of ours ; Making evident our own creation, In these stars of earth,—these golden flowers. And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, Sees, alike in stars and flqwers, a ‘part Of the self-same universal being Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.VOICE S OFRIEIE. NIGHT. Gorgeous flowerets in the pejeok da ’ Blossoms flaunting in the eye of eh ‘Tremulous leaves, shits soft and silver haing Buds that open only to decay ; Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, Flaunting gaily in the golden light; Large desires, with most uncertain issues, ‘Tender wishes, blossoming at night! These in flowers and men are more than seeming; Workin os.are they of the self-same powers, Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, Seeth in imesh and in the flowers. Kv apie e about us are they glowing, Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born ; Others, their blue eyes with tears o’erflewing, Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn ; Not alone in Spring’s armorial bearing, And in Summer’s green enableaanad field, But in arms of brave ald Awtumn’s v wearing, In the centre of his brazen shield ; Not alone i in meadows and green alleys, On the mountain- “top, and by the brink Of seques f red pools in woodland valleys, Where the slaves of Nature stoop to arias 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 anCosteal homes, whose crumbling towers Speaking of the Past unto the P Present, Tell us. of the ancient Games of Flowe In all places, then, and in all seasons, Flowers ex “pand: their light and sdule like Wines Leaching us, by most persuasive reasons, How akin they are to human things.TEED BIE IESSAG OB REED CET V. And with childlike, credulous affection We behold their tender buds expand ; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land. THE BELEAGUERED CITY. TI HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale, Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of spectres pale Beleaguered the walls of Prague. Beside the Moldau’s rushing stream, With the wan moon overhead, There stood, as in an awful dream, The army of the dead. White as.a sea-fog, landward bound, The spectral camp was seen, And, with a sorrowful deep sound, The river flowed between. if fa | 3 No other voice nor sound was there, No drum, nor sentry’s pace ; | The mist-like banners clasped the air fk As clouds with clouds embrace. . But, when the old cathedral bell Proclaimed the morning prayer, The white pavilions rose and fell On the alarméd air. Down the. broad valley fast and far The troubled army fled ; Up rose the glorious morning star, The ghastly host was dead. I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, | J That strange and mystic scroll, a That an army of phantoms vast and wan @ Beleaguer the human soul,VOICES) OF SAE INEGET . Encamped beside Lite’s rushing stream, In Fancy’s misty light, Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam Portentous through the night. Upon its midnight battle-ground The spectral camp is seen, And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, Flows the River of Life between. No other voice nor sound is there, In the army of the grave; No other challenge breaks the air, - But the rushing of Life’s wave. And, when the solemn and deep church-bell Entreats the soul to pray, The midnight phantoms feel the spell, The shadows sweep away. Down the broad Vale of Tears afar The spectral camp is fled ; Faith shineth as a morning star, Our ghastly fears are dead. MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. Yes, the Year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared! Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks the old man by the beard, Sorely,—sorely ! The leaves are falling, falling, Solemnly and slow ; Caw! caw! the rooks are calling, It is a sound of woe, A sound of woe! Through woods and mouncal.l-p asses The winds, like anthems, roll; They are chanting solemn masses, Singing ; ‘ Pray for this poor soul, Pray,—pray |”MIDNIGHT: MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. 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! Then comes the summer-like day, Bids the old man rejoice ! His joy! his last! Oh, 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! 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 ! W ould the sins that thou abhorrest, O Soul! could thus decay, And be swept away !KOLCES\OF LAE NIGHT. For there shall come a mightier blast, ‘There shall be a darker day ; And the stars, from heaven down-cas¢ L:ke red leaves be swept away! Kyrie, eleyson ! Christe, eleyson ! bl LENVOI. 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!” Yer sounds, so low and calm, That in the groves of balm Seemed to me like an angel’s psalm! Go, mingle yet once more With the perpetual roar Of the pine forest, dark and hoar! Tongues of the dead, not lost, But speaking from death’s frost, Like fiery tongues at Pentecost! — Glimmer, as funeral lamps, Amid the chills and damps Of the vast plain where Death encamps!HARLIER POEMS, [WRITTEN FOR THE MOST PART DURING Woy COULEGE DIRE, AND ATI OF THEM BEEORE DHE AGH OF NINETEEN. | AN APRIL DAY. Wuewn the warm sun, that brings Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, "Tis 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. 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 coloured 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 Jake the sky, o'er-reaching far, Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, And twinkles many a star.EARLIER POEMS. 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. AUTUMN. Wits 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 silvery 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. 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.WOODS IN WINTER. 17 O 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. WOODS IN WINTER. Wuewn 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. 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 greeu, 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. nee nti18 EARLIER. POEMS. 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. —>——_ SUNRISE ON THE HILLS. I sroop 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 grey mist thrust up its shattered lance, 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, Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke. Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke. If thou art worn and hard’ beset With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget,HYMN Of TAB MORAVIAN NUNS. If thou wouldst reaa 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. HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM, AT THE CONSECRATION OF. PULASKI’ BANNER. Wuen the dying flame of day Through the chancel shot its ray, Far the glimmering tapers shed Faint light on the cowléd head; And the censer burning swung, Where, before the altar, hung The blood-red banner, that with prayer Had been consecrated there. And the nun’s sweet hymn was heard the while, ; Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle. i: “Take thy banner! May it wave \ : Proudly o'er the good and brave i: When the battle’s distant wail ik Breaks the sabbath of our vale, When the clarion’s music thrills . To the hearts of these lone hills, i: ‘When the spear in conflicts 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. “Take thy banner! But, when night Closes round the ghastly fight, If the vanquished warrior bow, Spare him !—By our holy vow,EKARLIER POEMS. By our prayers and many fears, 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! BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. Ow 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, Around a far uplifted cone, In the warm blush of evening shone ; in 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, grey 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.THE SPIRIR OF ROETRY. 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 ot sheils 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. 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 the dead man’s plain, The rider grasps his steed again. ee THE SPIRIY 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 Tt fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, When the fast-ushering star of Morning comes O’er-riding the grey hills with golden scarf ; 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 brock, From its full laver, pours the white cascade ;22 —————————SS ee LARILIER POEMS, 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, The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle wings,— 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 We 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, And when it wears the blue of May, 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, Heard in the still night, with jts passionate cadence,a a a BALLADS. THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR. [The following Ballad was suggested to me while riding on the seasshore 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 con- necting it with the Round Tower at N Old Windmill, though now claimed by the Danes as a wor ancestors. | 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 ?” Then, fronmr 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 Frony the heart’s chamber. 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. ewport, generally known hitherto as the k of their early « 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. « But: 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 ; Many the souls that. sped, Many the hearts that bled, By. our stern: ordersa an 24 ef Many a wassail-bout a a 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. Once, as I told in glee aes of the stormy sea, Sott 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 splendour. I wooed the blue-eyed maid, Yielding, yet half afraid, And in the forest’s shade Our vows were plighted. ‘Under its loosened vest Fluttered her little breast, Like birds within their nest By the hawk frighted, Bright in her father’s hall Shields gleamed upon the wall, Loud sang the minstrels all, Chaunting his glory ; When of old Hildebrand I asked his daughter’s hand, Mute did the minstrel 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. BAL A DS. “ She was a Prince’s child, I but a Viking wild, And though she blushed and smiled, I was discarded ! Should not the dove so white Follow the sea-mew’s flight, Why did they leave that night Her nest unguarded ? “Scarce had I put to. sea, Bearing the maid with me,— Fairest of all was she Among the Norsemen !— When on the white-sea strand, Waving his arméd hand, Saw we old Hildebrand, With twenty horsemen. “ "Then launched they to the blast, Bent like a reed each mast, Yet we were gaining fast, When the wind failed us ; And with a sudden flaw Came round the gusty Skaw, So that our foe we saw Laugh as he hailed us. “ And as to catch the gale’ Round veered the flapping sail, Death! was the helmsman’s hail, Death without quarter ! Mid-ships with iron-keel Struck we her ribs of steel ; Down her black hulk did ree] Through the black water! “ As with his wings aslant, | Sails the fierce cormorant, Seeking some rocky haunt, With hie prey laden : So toward the open main, Beating the sea again, Through the wild hurricane, Bore I the maiden,“ Three weeks we westward bore, And when the storm was o’er, Cloud-like we saw the shore Stretching to leeward ; There for my lady’s bower Built I the lofty tower, Which, to this very hour, Stands looking seaward. THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 25 “ Still grew my boso:n then, Still as a stagnant fen! Hateful to me were men, The sunlight hateful ! In the vast forest here, Clad in my warlike gear, Fell I upon my spear, Oh, death was grateful ! “There lived we many years ; “Thus, seamed with many -scars, Time dried the maiden’s tears : She had forgot her fears, She was a mother ; Death closed her mild blue eyes, Under that tower she lies ; Ne’er shall the sun arise On such another ! Bursting these prison bars, Up to its native stars My soul ascended ! There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior’s soul, Skoal! to the Northland ! Skoal !”* —Thus the tale ended. — = ——— THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. Ir was the schooner Hesperus, That sailed the wintry sea ; And the skipper had taken his little daughter, To bear him company. Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, That ope in the month of May. The skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now Wrest, now South. Then up and spake an old Sailor, Had sailed the Spanish Main, “T pray thee, put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane. * In Scandinavia this is the customary salutation when drinking a health. I have slightly changed the orthography of the word, in order to preserve the correctBALLADS. “ Last night the moon had a golden ring, And to-night no moon we sce Y The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he. Colder and colder blew the wind, _ A gale from the North-east 5 The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast. Down came the storm, and smote amain The vessel in its strength ; She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, Then leaped her cable's length. « Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, And do not tremble s0 ; For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow.” He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat, Against the stinging blast ; He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the: mast. «Q father! I hear the church-bells ring, O say, what may it be?” «Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!" And he steered for the open sea. «© father! I hear the sound of guns, O say, what may it be?” «“ Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!”’ «© father, I see a gleaming light, O say, what may it be?” But the father answered. never a word, A frozen corpse was he. Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming. snow On his fixed and glassy eyes.TEE WRECK OF MBE Fie SP aU Ss Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That savéd she might be; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, On the Lake of Galilee. And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost the vessel swept Towards the reef of Norman’s Woe. And ever the fitful gusts between A sound came from the land; It was the sound of the trampling surf, On the rocks and the hard sea-sand, The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a dreary wreck, And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her deck. She struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull, Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board ; Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, Ho! ho! the breakers roared ! At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair, Lashed close to a drifting mast. The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, On the billows fall and rise. Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow,; Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman’s Woe!MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 1841-46. THE VILLAGE B LACKSMITH. UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands ; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands ; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands, His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan ; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate’er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man, Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low. And children coming home from school Look in at the open door ; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing floor, He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys;ENDYMION. He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice, Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother’s voice, Singing in Paradise! Te needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies ; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A. tear out of his eyes. Toiling—rejoicing—sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close ; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night’s repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought ; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought! ENDYMION. Tue rising moon has hid the stars ; Her level rays, like golden bars, Lie on the landscape green, With shadows brown between. And silver white the river gleams, As if Diana, in her dreams, Had dropt her silver bow Upon the meadows low, On such a tranquil night as this, She woke Endymion with a kiss, When, sleeping in the grove, He dreamed not of her love.MISCELLANEOUS POEMS Like Dian’s kiss, unasked, unsought, Love gives itself, but is not bought; Nor voice; nor sound betrays Its deep, impassioned gaze. It comes—the beautiful, the free, The crown of all humanity— In silence and alone To seek the elected one. st lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep, Are Life’s oblivion, the soul’s sleep, And kisses the closed eyes Of him, who skimbering lies. O, weary hearts! Q, slumbering eyes! O, drooping souls, whose. destinies Are fraught with fear and pain, Ye shall be loved again ! No one is so accursed by fate, No one so utterly desolate, But some heart, though unknown, Responds unto his own. Responds—as if with unseen wings, An angel touched its quivering strings ; And whispers, in its song, “ Where hast thou stayed so long?” THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR. FROM THE GERMAN OF PFIZER. A YouTH, light-hearted and conten:, I wander through the world ; Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent And straight again is furled. Yet oft I dream, that once a wife Close in my heart was locked, And in the sweet repose of life A blessed child I rocked,ee ea ee ee ae a ge TT IS NO ALWAYS AY. I wake! Away that dream—away ! Too long did it remain! So long, that both by night and day It ever comes again. The end lies ever in my thought; To a grave so cold and deep The mother beautiful was brought ; Then dropt the child asleep. But now the dream is wholly o’er, I bathe mine eyes and see; And wander through the world once more, A youth so light and free. Two locks—and they are wondrous fair— Left me that vision mild; The brown is from the mother’s hair, The blond is from the child. And when I see that lock of gold, Pale grows the evening-red ; And when the dark lock I behold, I wish that I were dead. —$—$ >> —_ IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. NO HAY PAJAROS EN LOS NIDOS DE ANTANO. SpaANisH PROVERB. Tur sun is bright—the air is clear, The darting swallows soar and sing, And from the stately elms I hear The blue-bird prophesying Spring. So blue yon winding river flows, It seems an outlet from the sky, Where waiting till the west wind blows, The freighted clouds at anchor lie. All things are new ;—the buds, the leaves, That gild the elm-tree’s nodding crest, And even the nest beneath the eaves ;— "Phere are no birds in last year’s nest!MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. All things rejoice in youth and love, The fulness of their first delight! _ And learn from the soft heavens above The melting tenderness of night. Maiden, that read’st this simple rhyme, Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay; Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, For oh! it is not always May! Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, To some good angel leave the rest ; For time will teach thee soon the truth, There are no birds in last year’s nest! ae THE RAINY DAY. Tue day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; It rains, and the wind is never weary ; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary. My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; It rains, and the wind is never Weary ; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary. Be still, sad heart! and cease repining ; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary. ame nL, GOD’S-ACRE. I uke that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls The burial-ground God’s-Acre! It is just ; It consecrates each grave within its walls, And breathes a benison o’er the sleeping dust.TOOTHE RIVER CHARLES, God’s-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts Comfort to these who in the grave have sown »y had garnered in their hearts, ray Q cee Nai a Lilce y = Their bread of life, alas! no more their own. iC SUL, Into its furrows shal! we all be cast, In the sure faith that we shall rise again At the great harvest, when the archangel’s blast Shall winnow, like a fan, the chatf and grain. Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, In the fair gardens of that second birth; And each bright blossom mingle its perfume With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth. With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod, And spread the furrow for the seed we sow ; This is the field and Acre of our God, This is the place where human harvests grow. TO THE RIVER CHARLES. River! that in silence windest Fhrough the meadows bright and free, Till at length thy rest thou findest In the bosom of the sea! For long years of mingled feeling, Half in rest, and half in strife, T have seen thy waters stealing Onward, like the stream of life. Thou hast taught me, Silent River! Many a lesson, deep and long ; Thou hast been a generous giver = I can give thee but a song. Of: in sadness and in illness, I have watched thy current glide, Till the beauty of its stillness Overflowed me, like a tide.MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, And in better hours and brighter, When I saw thy waters gleam, I have felt my heart beat lighter, And leap onward with thy stream. Not for this alone I love thee, Nor because thy waves of blue From celestial seas above thee ‘lake their own celestial hue. Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee, And thy waters disappear, Friends I love have dwelt beside thee, | And have made thy margin dear. More than this ;—thy name reminds me Of three friends, all true and tried ; And that name, like magic, binds me Closer, closer to thy side. Friends my soul with joy remembers! How like quivering flames they start, When I fan the living embers On the hearthstone of my heart ! "Tis for this, thou Silent River! That my spirit leans to thee ; Thou hast been a generous giver, Take this idle song from me. oe ee BLIND BARTIMEUS. BuinD Bartimeus at the gates Of Jericho in darkness waits ; He hears the crowd ;—he hears a breath Say, “It is Christ of Nazareth!” And calls in tones of agony, "Inoov, édénady pe! The thronging multitudes increase ; Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace! But still, above the noisy crowd, The beggar’s cry is shrill and loud ; Until they say, “ He calleth thee!” Odpoer, Eyewat, wri ce !THE GOBLET. OF EIFE, Then saith the Christ, as silent stands The crowd, © What wilt thou at my hands?” And he replies, “O give me light! Rabbi, restore the blind man’s sight!” And Jesus answers, “Yraye" ‘Hl riorig cov céowKé os ! Ye that have eyes, yet canhot see, In darkness and in misery, Recall those mighty Voices Three, "Inood, ddénady pe ! Gipaer, EYyeipal, “Vraye ! H aloteg cov oéowxé ae! ets THE GOBLET OF LIFE. Fittep is Life’s goblet to the brim; And though my eyes with tears are dim, T see its sparkling bubbles swim, And chant a melancholy hymn With solemn voice and slow. No purple flowers,—no garlands green, Conceal the goblet’s shade or sheen, Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene, Like gleams of sunshine, flash between Thick leaves of misletoe. This goblet, wrought with curious art, Is filled with waters, that upstart, When the deep fountains of the heart, By strong convulsions rent apart, Are running all to waste. And as it mantling passes round, With fennel is it wreathed and crowned, Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned Are in its waters steeped and drowned, And give a bitter taste. Above the lowly plants it towers, The fennel, with its yellow flowers, And in an earlier age than ours Was gifted with the wondrous powers, Lost vision to restore.36 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. It gave new strength, and fearless mood ; And gladiators, fierce and rude, Muingled it in their daily food; And he who battled and subdued, \ ryanqntin IEG ae | , 2, A wreath or fennel wore. ‘Then in Life’s goblet freely press, The leaves that give it bitterness, Nor prize the coloured waters less, For in thy darkness and distress New light and strength they give! And he who has not learnt to know How false its sparkling bubbles show, How bitter are the drops of woe, With which its brim may overflow, He has not learned to live. The prayer of Ajax was for light; Through all that dark and desperate fight, The blackness of that noonday night, He asked but the return of sight, To see his foeman’s face. Let our unceasing, earnest prayer Be, too, for light,—for strength to bear Our portion of the weight of care, That crushes into dumb despair One half the human race. O suffering, sad humanity! O ye afflicted ones who Ke Steeped to the lips in misery, Longing, and yet afraid to die, Patient, though sorely tried ! I pledge you in this cup of grief, Where floats the fennel’s bitter leat, The battle of our life is brief, Lhe alarm,—the struggle,—the relief,— Then sleep we side by side.MAIDENHOOD. MAIDENHOOD. Marpen! with the meek, brown eyes, In whose orbs a shadow lies Like the dusk in evening skies ! Thou whose locks outshine the sun, Golden tresses, wreathed in one, As the braided streamlets run! Standing, with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet! Gazing, with a timid glance, On the brooklet’s swift advance, On the river’s broad expanse ! Deep and still, that gliding stream Beautiful to thee must seem, As the river of a dream. Then why pause with indecision, When bright angels in thy vision Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? Seest thou shadows sailing by, As the dove with startled eye, Sees the falcon’s shadow fly ? Elearest thou voices on the shore, That our ears perceive no more, Deafened by the cataract’s roar? © thou child of many prayers! Life hath quicksands,—Lite hath snares! Care and age come unawares! Like the swell of some sweet tune, Morning rises into noon, May glides onward into June. Childhood is the bough, where slumbered Birds and blossoms many numbered ;— Age, that bough with snows encumMISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Gather, then, each flower that grows, a. When the young heart overflows, | To embalm that tent of snows. Bear a lily in thy hand ; Gates of brass cannot withstand One touch of that magic wand, Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, Tn thy heart the dew of youth, On thy lips the smile of truth. O, that dew, like balm, shall steal Into wounds, that cannot heal, Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ; And that smile, like sunshine, dart Into many a sunless heart, For a smile of God thou art. eee EXCELSIOR. Tue shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, ’mid snow and ice, A banner, with the strange device. Excelsior ! His brow was sad; his eye beneath, Flashed like a faulchion from its sheath, And like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongue, Excelsior! In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright ; Above the spectral glaciers shone, And from his lips escaped a groan, Excelsior ! “Try not the Pass!” the old man said ; ** Dark lowers the tempest overhead, The. roaring torrent is deep and wide!’ And loud that clarion voice replied ExcelsiorCARILLON. «*©O stay,’ the maiden said, “ and rest Thy weary head upon this breast !”’ A tear stood in his bright blue eye, But still he answered, with a sigh, Excelsior ! Beware the pine-tree’s withered branch ! Beware the awful avalanche!” This «was the peasant’s last Good-night, A voice replied, far up the height, Excelsior ! At break of day, as heavenward The pious monks of Saint Bernard Uttered.the oft-repeated prayer, A voice cried through the startled air, Excelsior ! A traveller, by the faithful hound, Half-buried in the snow was found, Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with the strange device, Excelsior! There in the twilight cold and gray, - Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star, Excelsior! CARILLON. In the ancient town of Bruges, In the quaint old Flemish city, As the evening shades descended, Low and loud and sweetly blended, Low at times and loud at times, And changing like a poets rhymes, Rang the beautiful wild chimes, From the Belfry in the market OFf the ancient town of Bruges.MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Then, with deep sonorous clangor Calmly answering their sweet anger, When the wrangling bells had ended, Slowly struck the clock eleven, And, from out the silent heaven, Silence on the town descended. Silence, silence everywhere, On the earth and in the air, Save that footsteps here and there Of some burgher home returning, By the street lamps faintly burning, For a moment woke the echoes Of the ancient town of Bruges. But amid my broken slumbers Still I heard those magic numbers, As they loud proclaimed the flight And stolen marches of the night ; Till their chimes in sweet collision Mingled with each wandering vision, Mingled with the fortune-telling Gipsy-bands of dreams and fancies, Which amid the waste expanses Of the silent land of trances Have their solitary dwelling. All else seemed asleep in Bruges, In the quaint old Flemish city. And I thought how like these chimes Are the poet’s airy rhymes, All his rhymes and roundelays, His conceits, and songs, and ditties, From the belfry of his brain, Scattered downward, though in vain, On the roofs and stones of cities! For by night the drowsy ear Under its curtains cannot hear, And by day men go their ways, Hearing the music as they pass But deeming it no more, alas! Than the hollow sound of brass, a Yet perchance a sleepless wight, Lodging at some humble innTHE BELFRY OF BRUGES, In the narrow lanes of life, When the dusk and hush of night Shut out the incessant din Of daylight and its toil and strife, May listen with a calm delight ‘To the poet’s melodies, Till he hears, or dreams he hears, Intermingled with the song, Thoughts that he has cherished long ; Hears amid the chime and singing The bells of his own village ringing, And wakes, and finds his slumberous eyes Wet with most delicious tears. Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Bleé, Listening with a wild delight To the chimes that, through the night, Rang their changes from the Belfry Of that quaint old Flemish city. el THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown; Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o’er the town. As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood, And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of widowhood. Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and vapours gray, ned od j Like a shield embossed with silver, From its chimneys, here and there, ascending, vanished, ghost-like, into air. round and vast the landscape lay. : At my feet the city stumbered. Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ’ Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning hour, But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient tower. sang the swallows wild and high, From their nests beneath the rafters nt than the sky. And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more dista bringing back the olden times, Then most musical and solemn, the melancholy chimes. With their strange, unearthly changes rang42 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sing in the choir ; And the great bell_tolled among them, like the chanting of a friar. Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain ; They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again ; All the Foresters of Flanders,—mighty Baldwin Bras de Fer, Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy, Philip, Guy de Dampierre. I beheld the pageants splendid, that adorned those days of old; Stately dames, like queens attended, Knights who bore the Fleece of Gold; Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden argosies ; Ministers from twenty nations; more than royal pomp and ease. I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground ; I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk and hound ; And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept wit h the queen, And the armed guard around them, and the sword unshe athed between. I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold, Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold ; Saw the fight at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving West, Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon’s nest. And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote ; And again the wild alarom soundéd from the tocsin’s throat ; Till the bell of Ghent responded o’er lagoon and dike of sand, “Tam Roland! I am Roland! there js victory in the land?” Then the sound of drums aroused me. ‘The awakened city’s roar Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once more. Hours had passeu away like minutes; and, before I w as aware, 1.91 the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumine d square. —<$<>—___ THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. Tuis is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms ; But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing Startles the villages with strange alarms.THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, When the death-angel touches those swift keys! What loud lament and dismal Miserere Will mingle with their awful symphonies! I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, The cries of agony, the endless groan, Which, through the ages that have gone before us, In long reverberations reach our own. On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman’s song, And loud, amid the universal clamour, O’er distant deserts sounds the ‘Tartar gong. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din, And Aztec priests upon their teocallis Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent’s skin; The tumult of each sacked and burning village ; The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns; The soldiers’ revels in the midst of pillage ; The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ; The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, The rattling musketry, the clashing blade ; And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, The diapason of the cannonade. Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, With such accurséd instruments as these, Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, And jarrest the celestial harmonies Were half the power, that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth, bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals nor forts: The warrior’s name would be a name abhorred ! And every nation that should lift again Its hand against a brother, on its forehead Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain! oe * SNMISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Down the dark future, through long generations, The echoing sounds grow fainter, and then cease ; And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, I hear once more the voice of Christ say, ‘‘ Peace {” Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies ° But beautiful as songs of the immortals, The holy melodies of love arise. A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. Tuts is the place. Stand still, my steed, Let me review the scene, : And summon from the shadowy Past | The forms that once have been. The Past and Present here unite - Beneath Time’s flowing tide, i Like footprints hidden by a brook, fh - But seen on either side. Here runs the highway to the town; There the green lane descends, Through which I walked to church with thee, O gentlest of my friends! The shadow of the linden-trees Lay moving on the grass ; Between them and the maving boughs, A shadow, thou didst pass. Thy dress was like the lilies, And thy heart as pure as they: One of God’s holy messengers Did walk with me that day. I saw the branches of the trees Bend down thy touch to meet, The clover-blossoms in the grass Rise up to kiss thy feet. “ Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, Of earth and folly born!” Solemnly sang the village choir On that sweet Sabbath morn.NUREMBERG. ‘Through the closed blinds the golden sun Poured in a dusty beam, Like the celestial ladder seen By Jacob in his dream. And ever and anon the wind, Sweet-scented with the hay, ‘Turned o'er the hymn-book’s fluttering leaves ‘That on the window lay. Long was the good man's sermon, Yet it seemed not so to me; For he spake of Ruth the beautiful, And still I thought of thee. Long was the prayer he uttered, Yet it seemed not so to me; For in my heart I prayed with him, And still I thought of thee. But now, alas! the place seems changed; Thou art no longer here: Part of the sunshine of the scene With thee did disappear. Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart, Like pine-trees, dark and high, Subdue the light of noon, and breathe A low and ceaseless sigh ; This memory brightens o’er the past, As when the sun, concealed Behind some cloud that near us hangs, Shines on a distant field. NUREMBERG. In the vaHey of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg the ancient stands. Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song, Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng:46 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold, Flad their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old ; And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme, That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime. In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band, Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde’s hand; On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian’s praise. Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art: Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart ; And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone, By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own. In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust, And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust ; In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare, Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air. Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart, Lived and laboured Albrecht Diirer, the Evangelist of Art; Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land. Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies ; Dead he is not,—but departed,—for the artist never dies, Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair, That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air! oR these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and dismal anes, Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude poetic strains. From remote and sunless suburbs, came they to the frie Building nests in Fame’s great temple, as in spouts the ndly guild, swallows build, As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme, And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anyal’s chime ; Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the bloom In the forge’s dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom, flowers of poesyLHE NORMAN BARON. 47 Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft, Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laughed. But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor, And a garland in the window, and his face above the door ; Painted by some humble artist; as in Adam Puschman’s song, As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great beard white and long . And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care, Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master’s antique chair. Vanished is the ancient splendour, and before my dreamy eye Wave these mingling shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry. Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world’s regard ; But thy painter, Albrecht Diirer, and Hans Sachs, thy cobbler-bard Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away, As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought his careless lay: Gathering from the pavement’s crevice, as a floweret of the soil, The nobility of labour,—the long pedigree of toil. ———>——= THE NORMAN BARON. [Dans les moments de la vie ou la réflexion devient plus calme et plus profonde, ou Pintérét et Pavarice parlent moins haut que la raison, dans les instants de chagrin domestique, de maladie, et de péril de mort, les nobles se repentirent de posséder des serfs, comme d’une chose peu agréable a Dieu, qui avait créé tous les hommes a son image. | THIERRY: CONQUETE DE L’ANGLETERRE, And, amid the tempest pealing, Sounds of bells came faintly stealing, Bells,that,from the neighbouring kloster, Rang for the Nativity. In his chamber, weak and dying, Was the Norman baron lying ; Loud, without, the tempest thundered, And the castle-turret shook. In this fight was Death the gainer, In the hall, the serf and vassal Spite of vassal and retainer, Held,that night, their Christmas wassail; And the lands his sires had plundered, Many a carol, old and saintly, Written in the Doomsday Book. Sang the minstrels and the waits. And so loud these Saxon gleemen Sang to slaves the songs of freemen, That the storm was heard but faintly, Knocking at the castle-gates. By his bed a monk was seated, Who in a humble voice repeated Many a prayer and pater-noster, From the missal on his knee;48 Tul at length the lays they chaunted Reached the chamber terror-haunted, ‘Where the monk, with accents holy, Whispered at the baron’s ear. Tears upon his eyelids glistened, As he paused awhile and listened, And the dying baron slowly Turned his weary head to hear, “ Wassail for the kingly stranger Born and cradled in a manger! King, like David, priest, like Aaron, Christ is born to set us free!” And the lightning showed the sainted Figures on the casement painted, And exclaimed the shuddering baron, “‘Miserere, Domine!” In that hour of deep contrition, , He beheld, with clearer vision, ef Through all outward show and fashion, Justice, the Avenger, rise. Bd MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. j All the pomp of earth had vanished, i Falsehood and deceit were banished, | Reason spake more loud than passion, | And the truth wore no disguise. | Every vassal of his banner, Ber serf born to his manor, | All those wronged and wretched cre2- tures By his hand were freed again. And, as on the sacred missal He recorded their dismissal, Death relaxed his iron features, And the monk replied, “Amen!* Many centuries have been numbered Since in death the baron slumbered By the convent’s sculptured portal, Mingling with the common dust: But the good ceed, through the ages Living in historic pages, Brighter grows and gleams immortal, Unconsumed by moth or rust. ———<$ THE INDIAN HUNTER. Wuen the summer harvest was gathered in, And the sheaf of the gleaner grew white and thin, And the ploughshare was in its furrow left, Where the stubble land had been lately cleft, An Indian hunter, with unstrung bow, Looked down where the valley lay stretched below, He was a stranger there, and all that day Had been out on the hills, a perilous way, | But the foot of the deer was far and fleet, | And the wolf kept aloof from the hunter’s feet, And bitter feelings passed o’er him then, As he stood by the populous haunts of men. The winds of autumn came over the woods, As the sun stole out from their solitudes ; The moss was white on the maple’s trunk, snd dead from its arms the pale vine shrunk, And ripened the mellow fruit hung, and red Where the trees withered leaves around it shed,RAIN IN SUMMER. The foot of the reaper moved slow on the lawn, And the sickle cut down the yellow corn; The mower sung loud by the meadow side, Where the mists of evening were spreading wide; And the voice of the herdsman came up the lea, And the dance went round by the greenwood tree. Then the hunter turned away from that scene, Where the home of his fathers once had been, And heard, by the distant and measured stroke, That the woodman hewed down the giant oak And burning thoughts flashed over his mind, Of the white man’s faith, and love unkind. i The moon of the harvest grew high and bright, As her golden horn pierced the cloud of white,— A footstep was heard in the rustling brake, Where the beech overshadowed the misty lake, And a mourning voice, and a plunge from shore, And the hunter was seen on the hills no more. When years had passed on, by that still lake side, The fisher looked down through the silver tide, And there on the smooth yellow sand displayed, A skeleton wasted and white was laid, And ’twas seen, as the waters moved deep and slow, That the hand was still grasping a hunter’s bow. ——>——_ RAIN IN SUMMER. How beautiful is the rain! After the dust and heat, In the broad and fiery street, In the narrow lane, How beautiful is the rain! How it clatters along the roofs, Like the tramp of hoofs! How it gushes and struggles out From the throat of the overflowing spout! Across the window pane It pours and pours; And swift and wide, With a muddy tide, Like a river down the gutter roars The rain, the wetcon:c rain! 49i ‘ay MISCELLANEOUS POLMS. The sick man from his chamber looks At the twisted brooks ; He can feel the cool Breath of each little pool ; His fevered brain Grows calm again, And he breathes a blessing on the rain. From the neighbouring school Come the boys, With more than their wonted noise And commotion ; And down the wet streets Sail their mimic fleets, Till the treacherous pool Engulfs them in its whirling And turbulent ocean. In the country, on every side Where far and wide, Like a leopard’s tawny and spotted hide, Stretches the plain, To the dry grass and the drier grain How welcome is the rain! In the furrowed land The toilsome and patient oxen stand; Lifting the yoke-encumbered head, With their dilated nostrils spread, They silently inhale The clover-scented gale, And the vapours that arise From the well-watered and smoking soil. For this rest in the furrow after toil Their large and lustrous eyes Seem to thank the Lord, More than man’s spoken word. Near at hand, From under the sheltering trees, The farmer sees His pastures, and his fields.of grain, As they bend their tops To the numberless beating dropse PRB SRO I RI BT a cg TP Cem TIRE ee = . oPR = ce IE NE See ag ee aE Gs Re EO ae a . — RAIN IN SUMMER. Of the incessant rain. He counts it as no sin That he sees therein Only his own thrift and gain. These, and far more than these, The Poet sees! He can behold Aquarius old Walking the fenceless fields of air, And from each ample fold Of the clouds about him rolled Scattering everywhere The showery rain, As the farmer scatters his grain. He can behold Things manifold That have not yet been wholly told, Have not been wholly sung nor said, For his thought, that never stops, Follows the water-drops if Down to the graves of the dead, i. Down through chasms and gulfs profound, To the dreary fountain-head Of lakes and rivers underground ; & And sees them, when the rain is done, On the bridge of colours seven 5 Climbing up once more to heaven, | Opposite the setting sun. Thus the Seer, With vision clear, Sees forms appear and disappear, In the perpetual round of strange, | Mysterious change From birth to death, from death to birth, From earth to heaven, from heaven to earva; Till glimpses more sublime Of things, unseen before, Unto his wondering eyes reveal The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel Turning for evermore In the rapid and rushing river of ‘Time.MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, i | TO A CHILD. Dear child! how radiant on thy mother s knee, With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles, Thou gazest at the painted tiles, W hose figures grace, With many a grotesque form and face, The ancient chimney of thy nursery! The lady with the gay macaw, The dancing girl, the brave bashaw | With bearded lip and chin; Bil And, leaning idly o'er his gate, Beneath the imperial fan of state, The Chinese mandarin. . With what a look of proud command ‘Thou shakest in thy little hand The coral rattle with its silver bells, Making a merry tune! bi ‘Thousands of years in Indian seas Er That coral grew, by slow degrees, | Until some deadly and wild monsoon Dashed it on Coromandel’s sand ! Those silver bells Reposed of yore, As shapeless ore, Far down in the deep-sunken wells Of darksome mines, In some obscure and sunless place, Beneath huge Chimborazo’s base, Or Potosi’s o’erhanging pines! H And thus for thee, O little child, i Through many a danger and escape, i The tall ships passed the stormy cape; For thee in foreign lands remote, Beneath the burning, tropic clime, The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat, Himself as swift and wild, In falling, clutched the frail arbute, The fibres of whose shallow root, Uplifted from the soil, betrayed The silver veins beneath it laid, The buried treasures of the pirate, Time,ZO A Cai. But, lo! thy door is left ajar! Thou hearest foots steps from afar! And, at the sound, ‘Thou turnest round Nith quick and questioning eyes, Hae one, who, in a foreign land, eholds on every hand sone source of wonder and surprise! And, restlessly, impatiently, a strivest, strugglest, to be free. he four valle of thy nursery Aga now like prison walls to thee. No more thy mother’s smiles, No more the painted tiles, Delight thee, nor the play things on the floor That won th ry hi ittle, beating heart before ; Thou strugglest for the open door. 1. Through these once solitary halls Thy pattering footstep falls. The sound of thy merry voice Makes the old walls Jubilant, and they rejoice With the joy of thy young heart, O’er the light of whose gladness No shadows of sadness From the sombre background of memory start Once, ah, once, within-these walls, One whom memory oft recalls, The Father of his Country, dwelt. And yonder meadows broad and damp The fires of the besieging camp Encircled with a burning belt. Up and down these echoing stairs, Heavy with the weight of cares, Sounded his majestic tread , Yes, within this very room Sat he in those hours of gloom, Weary both in heart and head. But what are these grave thoughts to thee? Out, out! into the open air! Thy only dream is liberty, Thou carest little how or where a3MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. I see thee eager at thy play, Now shouting to the apples on he tree, With cheeks as round and red as they ; And now among the yellow stalks, Among the flowering shrubs and plants, As restless as the bee. Along the garden walks, The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels I trace ; And see at every turn how they efface Whole villages of sand-roofed tents, That rise like golden domes Above the cavernous and secret homes Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants, Ah, cruel little Tamerlane, Who, with thy dreadful reign, Dost persecute and overwhelm These hapless ‘Troglodytes of thy realm ! What! tired already! with those suppliant look: , And voice more beautiful than a poet’s books, Or murmuring sound of water as it flows, Thou cemest back to parley with repose ! This ¢ustig seat in the old apple-tree, With its 6’erhanging golden canopy Of leaves illuminate with autumnal hues, And shining with the argent light of dews, Shall for a season be our place of rest, Beneath us, like an oriole’s pendent nest, From which the laughing birds have taken wing, By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant swing. Dream-like the waters of the river gleam ; A sailless vessel drops adown the stream, And like it, to a sea as wide and deep, Thou driftest gently down the tides of sleep. O child! O new-born denizen Of life’s great city ! on thy head The glory of the morn is shed, Like a celestial benison ! Here at the portal thou dost stand, And with thy little hand Thou openest the mysterious gate Into the future’s, undiscovered land, I see its valves expand,TO 42 CHL EP: As at the touch of Fate! Into those realms of love and hate, Into that darkness blank and drear, By some prophetic feeling taught, T launch the bold, adventurous thought, Vreiguted with hope and fear ; As upon subterranean streams, In caverns unexplored and dark, Men sometimes launch a fragile bark, Laden with flickering fire, And watch its swift-receding beams, Until at length they disappear, And in the distant dark expire. By what astrology of fear or hope Dare I to cast thy horoscope ! Like the new moon thy life appears ; A little strip of silver light, And widening outward into night The shadowy disk of future years ; And yet upon its outer rim, A luminous circle, faint and dim, And scarcely visible to us here, Rounds and completes the perfect sphere ; A prophecy and intimation, A pale and feeble adumbration, Of the great world of light, that lies Behind all human destinies. Ah! if thy fate, with anguish fraught, Should be to wet the dusty soil With the hot tears and sweat of toil,— To struggle with imperious thought, Until the overburdened brain, Weary with labour, faint with pain, Like a jarred pendulum, retain Only its motion, not its power,— Remember, in that perilous hour, When most afflicted and oppressed, From labour there shall come forth rest. And if a more auspicious fate On thy advancing steps await, Still let it ever be thy pride To linger by the labourer’s sideMISCELLANEOUS POEMS, With words of sympathy or song To cheer the dreary march along Of the great army of the poor, O’er desert sand, o er dangerous moor, Nor to thyselt the task shail be 7 -} ~| alt aor - Without reward ; for thou shalt learn The wisdom early to discern True beauty in utility ; As great Pythagoras of yore, Standing beside the blacksmith’s door, And hearing the hammers, as they smote The anvils with a different note, Stole from the varying tones, that hung Vibrant on every iron tongue, The secret of the sounding wire, And formed the seven-chorded lyre. Enough! I will not play the Seer ; I will no longer strive to ope The mystic volume, where appear The herald Hope, forerunning Fear, And Fear, the pursuivant of Hope. Thy destiny remains untold; For, like Acestes’ shaft of old, The swift thought kindles as it flies, And burns to ashes in the skies. THE OCCULTATION OF ORION. [ saw, as in a dream sublime, The balance in the hand of time. O’er East and West its beam impended ; And day, with all its hours of light, Was slowly sinking out of sight, While, opposite, the scale of night Silently with the stars ascended. Like the astrologers of eld, In that bright vision I beheld Greater and deeper mysteries. I saw, with its celestial keys,PR NEE EO ES Se renee - = == o THE OCCULTATION OF ORION Its chords of air, its frets of fire, The Samian’s great Avolian lyre, Rising through ail its sevenfold bars, From earth unto the fixed stars. And through the dewy atmosphere, Not only could I see, but hear, Its wondrous and harmonious strings, In sweet vibration, sphere by ‘sphere, From Dian’s circle light and near, Onward to vaster and wider rings, Where, chanting through his beard of snows, Majestic, mournful, Saturn goes, And down the sunless realms of space Reverberates the thunder of his bass. Beneath the sky’s triumphal arch This music sounded like a march, And with its chorus seemed to be Preluding some great tragedy. Sirius was rising in the east ; And, slow ascending one by one, The kindling constellations shone. Begirt with many a blazing star, Stood the great giant Algebar, Orion, hunter of the beast ! His sword hung gleaming by his side. And, on his arm, the lion’s hide Scattered across the midnight air The golden radiance of its hair. The moon was pallid, but not faint, And beautiful as some fair saint, Serenely moving on her way In hours of trial and dismay. As if she heard the voice of God, Unharmed with naked feet she trod Upon the hot and burning stars, As on the glowing coals and bars That were to prove her strength, and try Her holiness and her purity. Thus moving on, with silent pace, And triumph in her sweet, pale face, She reached the station of Orion. Aghast he stood in strange alarm ! De all ‘MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. And suddenly from his outstretched arm Dove. fell the red skin of the lon into the river at his feet. His migl al club no longer beat The forehead of the ‘ill but an Ree ged 7 of yore beside the sea, WI hen, blinded by Green) He sought the blacksmith at his forge, And, climbing up the mountain gorge, Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun. Then, through the silence overhead, An angel with a trumpet said, “‘ For evermore, for evermore, The reign of violence is o’er !” And like an instrument that flings Its music on another’s strings, ‘The trumpet of the angel cast Upon the heavenly lyre its blast, And on from sphere to sphere the words Re-echoed down the burning chords,— “For evermore, for evermore, The reign of violence is o’er !” eet TO THE DRIVING CLOUD. Grioomy and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty Omawhaws ; Gloomy and dark, as the driving cloud, whose name thou hast taken ! Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through the city’s Narrow and populous streets, as once by the margin of rivers Stalked those birds unknown, that have left us only their footprints. What, in a few short years, will remain of thy race but the footprints ! How canst thou walk in these streets, who hast trod the green turf of the prairies? How canst thou breathe in this air, who hast breathed the sweet air of the mountains? Ah! ’tis vain that iG lordly looks of disdain thou dost challenge Looks of dislike in return, and question these walls and these pavements, pene the soil for thy ne ands, while down-trodden millions Starve in Pe garrets of Europe, and cry Aon its caverns that they, too, 1eirs of the earth, and claim its division ! s west of the Wabash ! h 4 Have been created Back, then, back to thy woods in the region 1ULE BRIDGE: 2) _There as a monarch thou reignest. In autumn the leaves of the maple Pave the floors of thy palace-halls with gold, and in summer : Pine-trees. waft through its chambers the odorous breath of their branches. There thou art strong and great, a hero, a tamer of horses! There thou chasest the stately stag on the banks of the Elk-horn, Or by the roar of the Running-Water, or where the Omawhaw Calls thee, and leaps through the wild ravine like a brave of the Black. feeu! Hark! what murmurs arise from the heart of those mountainous deserts? Is it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the mighty Behemoth, Who, unharmed, on his tusks once caught the bolts of the thunder, And now lurks in his lair to destroy the race of the red man? Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the Crows and the Foxes, Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the tread of Behemoth, Lo! the big thunder-canoe, that steadily breasts the Missouri’s Merciless current! and yonder, afar on the prairies, the camp-fires Gleam through the night; and the cloud of dust in the gray of the daybreak Marks not the buffalo’s track, nor the Mandan’s dexterous horse-race ; It is a caravan, whitening the desert where dwell the Camanches! Ha! how the breath of these Saxons and Celts, like the blast of the east-wind, Drifts evermore to the west the scanty smokes of thy wigwams! en THE BRIDGE. I stoop on the bridge at midnight, | Among the long, black rafters As the clocks were striking the hour, ‘The wavering shadows lay, And the moon rose o’er the city, And the current that came ficim the Behind the dark church-tower. ocean Seemed to litt and bear them aavay ; I saw her bright reflection In the waters under me, Like a golden goblet falling And sinking into the sea. ° q ii soe See oy eV gees As, sweeping and eddying through them, Rose the belated tide, And, streaming into the moonlight, | cael ‘The seaweed floated wide. And like those waters rushing Among the wooden piers, A flood of thoughts came o’er me That filled my eyes with tears. And far in the hazy distance Of that lovely night in June, ‘The blaze of the flaming furnace Gleamed redder than the moon,og geen cy a How often, oh, how often Tn the days that had gone by, 1 stood on t fun ax ibudge at midnight gazed on that wave and sky! Fag ee Ce Th eae ee K2OW OFC eis on, ROW orcen, y 1 nt gaa J, I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom ’er the ocean wild and wide! or my heart was hot and restless, And my life was full of care, bi And the burden laid upon me Seemed greater than I could bear. But now it has fallen from me, it is buried in the sea ; And only the sorrow of others Throws its shadow over me. Yet whenever I cross the river On its bridge with wooden piers, rm he outlaws of the sun, 50 WISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Like the odour of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years. And I think how many thousands Of care=« eee men, Each bearing his burden of sorrow, Have crossed the bridge since then! n I see the long processior d fro, Still passing to an The young heart hot and restless, And the o!d subdued and slow. 1 for ever and for ever, .\s long as the river flows, As long as the heart has passions, As long as life has woes; The moon and its broken reflection And its shadows shail appear, As the symbol of love in heaven, And its wavering Image here. FLOWER-DE-LUCE. | BEavurirFut |il oe ya by still rivers, | Or solitary mere, | Or where the co gish meadow-brook delivers | Its waters to the weir! Thou laughest at the mill, the whirr and worry | OF s spindle and of loom, i | And the great wheel that toils amid the hurry i | And rushing of the flume. | Born to the purple, born to joy and pleasance, ; Thou dost not toi But makest glad and radiant with thy presence ‘The meadow and the lin. il nor spin, ne yg S *¢ Be The wind blows, and uplifts thy drooping banner, And round thee throng and run Che rushes, the green yeomen of thy manor,Thou art the Iris, fait amon: Who, armed wets And winged with the cele: ae message of some > Cod. Thou art the Muse, who far from crowded 7 Hauntest the sylv ctraame 1 Strearr 15, Playing on pipes peat “That come to u © flower-de-luce, bloom on, and let the ri artless ditties nS AC s dreams. a Ls} Linger to kiss thy feet! O flower of song, bloom on, and make for ever The world more fair and sweet. CURFEW. I. SOLEMNLY, mournfully, Dealing its dole, ‘The Curfew Bell Is beginning to toil. Cover the embers, And put out the light ; ‘Toil comes with the morning, And rest with the night. Dark grow the windows And quenched is the fire ; Sound fades into silence,— All footsteps retire. No voice in the chambers, No sound in the hall! Sleep and oblivion Reign over all. II. The book is completed, And closed, like the day ; A bd the pane that has wriiiei Tes The stor} y 1g tol: alee Ot Darker an ker TI i £41} ihe black shadows fall; 4G2 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, KALIF OF BALDACCA. Inro the city of Kambalu, By the road that leadeth to Ispahan, At the head of his dusty caravan, Laden with treasure from realms afar Baldacca, and Kelat, and Kandahar 4 a Rode the great captain A The Khan from his palace window gazed : cae He saw in the thronging street beneath, In the light of the setting sun, that blazed Through the clouds of dust by the caravan raised, The flash of harness and jewelled sheath, And the shining scymitars of the guard, : And the weary camels, that bared their teeth, Ass they passed and passed, through the gates unbarred Into the shade of the palace yard, 4 Thus into the city of Kambalu Rode the great captain Alat ; And he stood before the Khan, and said,— “The enemies of my lord are dead ; All the Kalifs of all the West Bow and obey his least behest ; The plains are dark with the mulberry-trees, The weavers are busy in Samarcand, The miners are sifting the golden sand, ‘The divers are plunging for pearls in the seas, ind peace and plenty are in the land. “Only Baldacca’s Kalif alone i | Rose in rebellion against thy throhe ; i | His treasures are at thy palace door, | With the swords, and the shawls, and the jewels he wore ; @ His body is dust o’er the Desert blown. } 2 mile ontside OF Baldaccals o- I left my forces to lie in w s and hillock: And forward dashed with a' hai i i Concealed by forests and tae ay ed Nid tieer tee. Loe 4o lure tne old tiger from his de Into the ambush f had planned,TEE ICAI OF BAGO ACCA Ere we reached the town the alarm was spread, For we heard the sound of gongs from within ; With clash of cymba ils and warlike din The gates swung wide; we turned and fled, And the garrison sallied forth and pursued, With the grey old Kalif at their head, And above them the banner of Mahomed: ‘Thus we snared them all, and the town was subdued. * As in at the gate we rode, behold, A tower that was called the Tower of Gold! For there the Kalif had hidden his wealth, Heaped, and hoarded, and piled on high, Like sacks of wheat in a granary, And there the old miser crept by stealth To feel of the gold that gave him ‘healt To gaze, and gloat with his hungry eye On jewels that gleamed like a glowworm’s spark, Or the eyes of a panther in the dark. th 4] En), “‘T said to the Kalif, ‘Thou art old, Thou hast no need of so much gold. Thou shouldst not have heaped and hidden it here, Till the breath of battle was hot and near, But have sown through the land these useless hoards, To spring into shining blades of swords, And keep thine honour sweet and clear. These grains of gold are not grains of wheat ; These bars of silver thou canst not eat; These jewels and pearls and precious stone: Cannot cure the aches in thy bones, Nor keep the feet of Death one hour From climbing the stairways of thy tower!’ “Then into this dungeon I locked the drone, And left him to feed there all alone In the honey-cells of his golden hive: Never a prayer, nor a cry, Nor a groan, Was heard from those massive walls of stone, Nor again was the Kalif seen alive! “ When at last we unlocked the dcor, We found him dead upon the floor ; The rings had droj pes from his withered pugs His teeth were like bones in the desert sands ; SSMISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Still clutching his treasures he had died ; “08 as he lay there, he guar mi |! A statue of goid with a silver beard, His arms outstretched as if Riheed” This is the story, strange and true, That the great captain Alat Told to his brother the Tartar Khan, When he rode that day into Kambalu, By the road that leadeth to Ispahan. June, 1864. PALINGENESIS. i I ray upon the headland height, and listened To the incessant sobbing of the sea In caverns under me, ee And watched the waves, that tossed and fled and glistened, tt Until the rolling meadows of amethyst | Melted away in mist. Then suddenly, as one from sleep, I started; For round about me all the sunny capes Seemed peopled with the shapes if Of those whom I had known in days departed, it ook ppareiled in the loveliness which gleams On faces seen in dreams. A moment only, and the light and glory Faded away, and the disconsolate shore Stood oe as before ; And the wild roses of the promontory Around me shuddered in the wind, and shed Their petals of pale red. ‘There was an old belief that in the embe Of all things their pri rimordial form saint And cunning alchemists Could re-create the rose with all its members m its own ashes, but without the bloom, i Without the ‘es perfume, a3PALINGENESIS.. 7) ge Ah, me! what wonder-working, occult science Can from the ashes in our hearts once more The rose of youth restore? What craft of alchemy can bid defiance To’time and change, and for a single hour Renew this phantom flower? “Oh, give me back,” I cried, “the vanished splendours, ‘The breath of morn, and the exultant strife, When the swift stream of life Bounds over its rocky channel, and surrenders The pond, with all its lilies, for the leap Into the unknown deep!” And the sea answered, with a lamentation, Like some old prophet wailing, and it said, “‘ Alas! thy youth is dead! It breathes no more, its heart has no pulsation, In the dark places with the dead of old, It lies for ever cold!” Then said I, “ From its consecrated cerements TI will not drag this sacred dust again, Only to give me pain; 5 But, still remembering all the lost endearments, \ Go on my way, like one who looks before, And turns to weep no more.” Into what land of harvests, what plantations iE Bright with autumnal foliage and the glow . Of sunsets burning low; | ; Beneath what midnight skies, whose constellations , Light up the spacious avenues between This world and the unseen! Amid what friendly greetings and caresses, : ; What households, though not alien, yet not mine, Bi What bowers of rest divine ; To what temptations in lone wildernesses, What famine of the heart, what pain and loss, The bearing of what cross! I do not know; nor will I vainly question Those pages of the mystic book which hold The story still untold,an on a oe sili it 2 ™ =o. sch Aree en 5 ee an oe AS ae RN EE SLES EM ga a 66 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. But without rash conjecture or suggestion Turn its last leaves in reverence and good heed, Unul ~The End? fread: JuLy, 1864. HAWTHORNE. May 23, 1864. How beautiful it was, that one bright day In the long week of rain ! Though all its splendour could not chase away — ‘The omnipresent pain. The lovely town was white with apple-blooms, And the great elms o’erhead, : Dark shadows wove on their aérial looms, Shot through with goiden thread. Across, the meadows, by the grey old manse, — The historic river flowed ;— ae J was as one who wanders in a trance, Unconscious of his road. The faces of familiar friends seemed strange ; Their voices I could hear, Ht And yet the words they uttered seemed to change Hi Their meaning to the ear. For the one face I looked for was not there, ‘The one low voice was mute ; Only an unseen presence filled the air, And baffled my pursuit. Now I look back, and meadow, manse, and stream, | Dimly my thought defines ; 1 only see—a dream within a dream— / | The hill-top hearsed with pines. TI only hear above his place of rest Their tender undertone, The infinite longings of a troubled breast, The voice so like his own.CHRISTMAS BELLS, 67 There in seclusion and remote from men The wizard hand lies cold, Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen, And left the tale half told. Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power, And the lost clue regain ? The unfinished window in Aladdin’s tower, Unfinished must remain! THE SEA-DIVER. My way is on the bright blue sea, My sleep upon the rocky tide; And many an eye has followed me, Where billows clasp the worn sea- side. My plumage bears the crimson blush, When ocean by the sun is kissed! ‘When fades the evening’s purple flush, My dark wing cleaves the silver mist. Full many a fathom down beneath The bright arch of the splendid deep, My ear has heard the sea-shell breathe O’er living myriads in their sleep. They rested by the coral throne, And by the pearly diadem, Where the pale sea-grape had o’ergrown ‘The glorious dweiling made for them, At night upon my storm-drenched wing, I poised above a helmless bark, And soon I saw the shattered thing Had passed away and left no mark. And when the wind and storm had done, A ship that had rode out the gale, Sunk down without a signal-gun, And none was left to tell the tale. I saw the pomp of day depart— ‘The cloud resign its golden crown, When to the ocean’s beating heart ‘The sailor’s wasted corse went down. Peace be to those whose graves are made Beneath the bright and silver sea! Peace that their relics there were laid, With no vain pride and pageantry. CHRISTMAS BELLS. I HEARD the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men!68 2 ae ae = ae 7 a aS EIA Sa a Be MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. And thought how, as the day had come, The belfries of all Christendom Had rolled along The unbroken song Of peace on earth, good-will to men! Till, ringing, singing on its way, The world revolved from night to day, A voice, a chime, A chant sublime Of peace on earth, good-will to men! ‘Then from each black, accursed mouth ‘The cannon thundered in the South, And with the sound The carols drowned Of peace on earth, good-will to men! It was as if an earthquake rent The hearthstones of a continent, And made forlorn The households born Of peace on earth, good-will to men! And in despair I bowed my head; “There is no peace on earth,” I said ; “For hate is strong, And mocks the song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!” Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: “God is not dead! nor doth he sleep ! The Wrong shall fail, The Right prevail, With peace on earth, good-will to men!” ——=-— =. THE BRIDGE OF CLOUD. Burn, O evening hearth, and waken | Luring me by necromancy Pieasant visions, as of old! Though the house by winds be shaken, Ms a ae Safe I keep this room of gold. But, instead, it builds me bridges Up the never-ending stair. Over many a dark ravine, Ah, no longer wizard Fancy Where beneath the gusty ridges, | Builds its castles in the air, Cataracts dash and roar unseen.And I cross them, little heeding Blast of wind, or torrent’s roar, As I follow the receding \ Footsteps that have gone before. Nought avails the Heya ng gesture, Nought avails the cry of pain! When I touch the flying vesture ’Tis the grey robe of the rain. Baffled I return, and leaning O’er the parapets of cloud, Watch the mist that intervening Wraps the valley in its shroud. And the sounds of life ascending Feebly, vaguely, meet the ear, SEPTEMBER, 1864. gg ee EL. 69 Murmur of bells and voices blending With the rush of waters near. Well I know what there lies hidden, aos tower, and town, and farm, And again the land forbidden Reassumes its vanished charm. Well I know the secret places, And the nests in hedge and tree; N At what doors are friendly faces, In what hearts a thought of me. hrough the mist and darkness sinking, own by wind, and beaten by shower, 1 I fing the thought ’'m iNaiking, own I toss this Alpine flower, go 3 / Oo ae NOEL L’ Académie en respect, Nonobstant l’incerrection, A la faveur du sujet, r 1 & Ture-lure, N’y fera point de rature; Noél! farestare a QUAND les astres de Noél Brillaient, palpitaient au ciel, Six gaillards, et chacun ivre, Chantaient gaiment dans le givre, «Bons amis, Allons donc chez Agassiz !” Ses illustres Pélerins D’Outre Mer, adroits et fins, Se donnant des airs de prétre, A Venvi se vantaient d’étre “Bons amis, De Jean Rudolphe Agassiz Giil-de-Perdrix, grand farceur, Sans reproche et sans pudeur, Dans son patois de Bourgogne, Gu1-BaROZAlI Bredouillait comme un ivrogne, « Bons amis, J’ai dansé chez Agassiz !’ On Verzenay le Champenois, Bon Francais, point New-Yorquois, Mais des environs d’ Avize, Fredonne, & maintes reprises, « Bons amis, Jai chanté chez Agassiz !” Wick 1 A cété marchait un vieux Fels At @2cf a7a 7 7 - Hidalgo, mais non mousseux ; Dans s let temps de Charlemagne, 2 J’ai diné chez Agassiz 1” * Sent to Mr. Agassiz, with a basket of wine, on Christmas Eve, 1864.a. ~ 7 ee a ee 20 MISCELLANEOUS EOLDMS. Detriére eux un Bordelais, Hs arrivent trois A trois, | Gascon, s'il en fit jamais, Montent Vescalier de bois big || Parfumé de poésie Clopi opin-clepant! quel gendarme Riait, chantait plein de vie, cut permettre ce vacarme, “ Bons amis, | Bons amis, J’ai soupé chez Agassiz !” \ la porte d’Agassiz, ! co “Ouvrez donc, mon bon seigneur, Ouvrez vite et n’ayez peur ; Ouvrez, OUVrez, Car nous sommes Gens de bien et gentilshommes, Bons amis, De fa famille Agassiz.” Bras dessus et bras dessous, Mine altiére et couleur terne, Vint le Sire de Sauterne : “ Bons amis, J’ai couché chez Agassiz !” | Avec ce beau cadet roux, | f Fl Mais le dernier de ces preux yi Etait un pauvre Chartreux, Qui disait, d’un ton robuste, “ Bénédictions sur le Juste ! | Bons amis, Bénissons Pére Agassiz !” Chut, ganaches! taisez-vous ! C’en est trop de vos glouglous Epargnez aux Philosophes Vos abominables strophes! Bons amis, Respectez mon Agassiz. a _—_— _ THE WIND OVER THE CHIMNEY. SEE, the fire is sinking low, Dusky red the embers glow, While above them st till I cower,— While a moment more I linger, Though the clock, with lifted finger, Points beyond the midnight hour, Sings the blackened log a tune Learned in.some forgotten June From a schoolboy in his play, i | : When they both were young together, | Heart of youth and summer weather i Making all their holiday. And the night-wind rising, hark! How above there in the dark, In the midnight and the snow, Ever wilder, flercer, grander, Like the trumpets of Iskander, | All the noisy chimneys blow’?!THE YWAND* OVER THE CHIMNE Y. Every quivering tongue of flame Seems to murmur some great name, Seems to say to me, ‘‘ Aspire!” But the night-wind answers,—“ Hollow Are the visions that you follow ; Into darkness sinks your fire !"’ Then the flicker of the blaze Gleams on volumes of old days, Written by masters of the art, Loud through those majestic pages Rolls the melody of ages, Throb the harp-strings of the heart. And again the tongues of flame Start exulting and exclaim,— “‘' These are prophets, bards, and seers 3 In the horoscope of nations, Like ascendant constellations, They control the coming years.’ But the night-wind cries,—“ Despair! Those who walk with feet of air Leave no long-enduring marks ; At God’s forges incandescent Mighty hammers beat incessant, These are but the flying sparks. “Dust are all the hands that wrought; Books are sepulchres of thought ; The dead laurels of the dead Rustle for a moment only, Like the withered leaves in lonely Churchyards at some passing tread.” Suddenly the flame sinks down ; Sink the rumours of renown; And alone the night-wind drear Clamours louder, wilder, vaguer, ‘Tis the brand of Meleager Dying on the hearth-stone here!” And I answer,—“ Though it be, Why should that discomfort me? ae eaten ciMISCELLANEOUS POEMS, No endeavour is in vain ; 1 Its reward is in the doine LLC &? And the rapture of pursuing > 1 ny ve 1 7 oe 99 Is the prize the vanquished gain, JaNuARY 1865. KILLED AT THE FORD. He is dead, the beautiful youth, The heart of honour, the tongue of truth,— He, the life and light of us all, Whose voice was as blithe as a bugle call Whom all eyes followed with one consent, The cheer of whose laugh, and whose pleasant word, Hushed all murmurs of discontent. Only last night, as we rode along, Down the dark of the mountain gap, To visit the picquet-guard at the ford, Little dreaming of any mishap, He was humming the words of some old song: Two red roses he had on his cap, And another he bore at the point of his sword,” Sudden and swift a whistling ball Came out of 4 wood, and the voice was still ; Something I heard in the darkness fall, And for a moment my blood grew chill; I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks In a room when some one js lying dead ; But he made no answer to what I said. We lifted him on his saddle again, And through the mire, and the mist, and the rain Carried him back to the silent camp, And laid him as if asleep on his bed ; And I saw by the light of the surgeon’s lamp ; Two white roses upon his cheel KS, And one just over his heart blo od-red ! And I saw in a vision | That fatal bullet wen Till it reached 10W far and fleet t speeding forth, a town in the distant North,THE BELES OF EVINN. Till it reached a house in a sunny street, Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat Without a murmur, without a cry ; And a bell was tolled in that far-off town, For one who had passed from cross to crown,— And the neighbours wondered that she shouid die. ApriL, 1866. ee THE BELLS OF LYNN, HEARD AT NAHANT. O Currew of the setting sun! O bells of Lynn! O requiem of the dying day! O bells of Lynn! From the dark belfries of yon cloud-cathedral wafted, Your sounds aérial seem to float, O bells of Lynn! Borne on the evening wind across the crimson twilight, O’er land and sea they rise and fall, O bells of Lynn! The fisherman in his boat, far out beyond the headland, Listens and leisurely rows ashore, O bells of Lynn ! Over the shining sands, the wandering cattle homeward Follow each other to your call, O bells of Lynn! The distant lighthouse hears, and with his flaming signal, Answers you, passing the watchword on, O bells of Lynn! And down the darkening coast run the tumultuous surges, And clap their hands, and shout to you, O bells of Lynn! Till from the shuddering sea, with your wild incantation, Ye summon up the spectral moon, O bells of Lynn! And startled at the sight, like the weird woman of Endor, Ye cry aloud, and then are still, O bells of Lynn!POEMS ON SLAVERY. 1042. [The following Poems, with one exception, were written at sea, in the latter Fi part of October, 1842. I had not then heard of Dr. Channing’s death. Since that event, the poem addressed to him is no longer appropriate. I have decided, however, to let it remain as it was Written, a feeble testimony of my admiration for a great and good man.] TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING. Tue pages of thy book I read, And as I closed each one, My heart, responding, ever said, “Servant of God! well done!’’ Well done! Thy words are great and bold; At times they seem to me Le Like Luther’s, in the days of old, | Half-battles for the free. \ Go on, until this land revokes The old and chartered Lie, The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes Insult humanity. a A voice is ever at thy side Speaking in tones of might, | Like the prophetic voice, that cried Ft To John in Patmos, “ Write!” Write! and tell out this bloody tale; Record this dire eclipse, This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail, k This dread Apocalypse !NR Pa Sr oe LHE SLAVES. DREAM. THE SLAVE’S DREAM. Besipe the ungathered rice he lay, His sickle in his hand; His breast was bare, his matted hair Was buried in the sand. Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, He saw his Native Land. Wide through the landscape of his dreams The lordly Niger flowed ; Beneath the palm-trees on the plain Once more a king he strode; And heard the tinkling caravans Descend the mountain-road. He saw once more his dark-eyed queen Among her children stand ; They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, They held him by the hand !— A tear burst from the sleeper’s lids And fell into the sand. And then at furious speed he rode Along the Niger’s bank ; His bridle-reins were golden chains, And, with a martial clank, At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel Smiting his stallion’s flank. Before him, like a blood-red flag, The bright flamingoes flew ; From morn till night he followed their flight, O’er plains where the tamarind grew, Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, And the ocean rose to view. At night he heard the lion roar, And the hyzena scream ; And the river-horse as he crushed the reeds Beside some hidden stream ; And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, Through the triumph of his dream.THE GOOD LOMMS ON SLAVERY. ‘The forests, with their myriad tongues, nouted of liberty ; And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud With a voice so wild and fre t he started in his sleep and smiled At their tempestuous glee. He did not feel the driver’s whip, Nor the burning heat of day ; For death had illumined the Land of Sleep, And his lifeless body lay A worn-out fetter, that the soul Had broken and thrown away! PART THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY. Sue dwelis by Great Kenhawa’s side, In valleys green and cool; And all her hope and all her pride Are in the village school. Her soul, like the transparent air That robes the hills above, Though not of earth, encircles there All things with arms of love. And thus she walks among her girls With praise and mild rebukes ; Subduing e’en rude village churls By her angelic looks, She reads to them at eventide Of One who came to Save ; ry ed ae eye? 1 . . 40 cast the Captives chains aside, And oft the blessed time foretelis When all men shall be free ; And musical, as silyer bells, Their falling chains shall be.eA ERS TERE ARLES ES DE ROE eRe Oe Le ee eee ence ee mee THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. 7 / And following her beloved Lord, In decent poverty, For she was rich, and To break the iron bands Of those who waited in her hall, And laboured in her lands. Long since beyond the Southern Sea Their outbound sails have sped, While she, in meek humnility, | Now earns her daily bread. It is their prayers, which never cease, ao ] ¢} Oo har ‘tt VIG) hat clothe her with such grace; Their blessing is the light of peace That shines upon her face. ane THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. \ : In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp The hunted Negro fay ; He saw the fire of the midnight camp, And heard at times a horse’s tramp And’‘a bloodhound’s distant bay. ; Where will-o’-the-wisps and glow-worms shine, | In bulrush and in brake ; Where waving mosses shroud the pine, And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine Is spotted like the snake ; Where hardly a human foot could pass, Or a human heart would dare, On the quaking turf of the green morass He crouched in the rank and tangled grass, Like a wild beast in his lair. A poor old slave, infirm and lame; | Great scars deformed his face ; On his forehead he bore the brand of shame, And the rags, that hid his mangled frame, Were the livery of disgrace.7. Ta 1 Tae Je WN SEA VAS iC . PORES: : | All things above were bright and fair, All things were glad and free ; | Lithe squirrels darted here and there, And wild birds filled the echoing air With songs of Liberty! i On him alone was the doom of pain, From the morning of his birth; | On him alone the curse of Cain | Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain, And struck him to the earth! THE QUADROON GIRL. Tue Slaver in the broad lagoon Lay moored with idle sail ; He waited for the rising moon, And for the evening gale. arias Under the shore his boat was tied, And all her listless crew Watched the gray alligator slide Into the still bayou. Odours of orange-flowers, and spice, Reached them from time to time, i Like airs that breathe from Paradise Upon a world of crime. The Planter, under his roof of thatch, It Smoked thoughtfully and slow ; The Slaver’s thumb was on the latch, He seemed in haste to go. He said, “ My ship at anchor rides In yonder broad lagoon ; I only wait the evening tides, And the rising of the moon.” | ) Before them, with her face upraised, ! In timid attitude, Like one half curious, half amazed; A Quadroon maiden stood.THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT. Her eyes were large, and full of light, Her arms and neck were bare; No garment she wore, save a kirtle bright, And her own long, raven hair. And on her lips there played a smile As holy, meek, and faint, As lights in some cathedral aisle The features of a saint. «The soil is barren,—the farm is old ;” The thoughtful Planter said ; Then looked upon the Slaver’s gold, And then upon the maid. His heart within him was at strife With such accurséd gains ; For he knew whose passions gave her life, Whose blood ran in her veins. But the voice of nature was too weak; He took the glittering gold! Then pale as death grew the maiden’s cheek, Her hands as icy cold. ‘The Slaver ted her from the door, He led her by the hand, To be his slave and paramour In a strange and distant land! —$_>—— THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT. Loup he sang the Psalm of David! He, a Negro, and enslaved, Sang of Israel’s victory, Sang of Zion, bright and free. Tn that hour, when night is calmest, Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist, In a voice so sweet and clear Tha 1 could not choose but hear. Sones of triumph, and ascriptions, Such as reached the swart Egyptians, When upon the Red Sea coast Perished Pharaoh and his host.POEMS ONG SLAVE TeV. | And the voice of his devotion i Filled my soul with strange emotion ; | For its tones by turns were glad, Sweetly solemn, wildly sad. Paul and Silas, in their prison, Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen, And an earthquake’s arm of might Broke their dungeon-gates at night. . But, alas! what holy angel — Brings the slave this glad evangel ? | And what earthquake’s arm of might Breaks his dungeon-gates at night? THE WITNESSES. ieee | In Ocean’s wide domains, Half buried in the sands, Lie skeletons in chains, With shackled feet and hands. Beyond the fall of dews, Deeper than plummet lies, | Float ships with all their crews, N No more to sink nor rise. There the black Slave-ship swims, | Freighted with human forms, Ie Whose fettered, fleshless limbs i | Are not the sport of storms. These are the bones of Slaves; They gleam from the abyss; They cry, from yawning waves, “We are the Witnesses !”’ Within Earth’s wide domains ' Are markets for men’s lives; E! Their necks are galled with chains, Their wrists are cramped with gyves.LHE WARNING. Dead bodies, that the kite In deserts makes its prey ; Murders, that with affright Scare schoolboys from their play! All evil thoughts and deeds ; Anger, and lust, and pride ; The foulest, rankest weeds, That choke Life’s groaning tide! ‘These are the woes of Slaves; They glare from the abyss ; They cry from unknown graves, “We are the Witnesses !”’ THE WARNING. Beware! The Israelite of old, who tore The lion in his path,—when, poor and blind, He saw the blessed light of heaven no more, Shorn of his noble strength and forced to grind In prison, and at last led forth to be A pander to Philistine revelry,— Upon the pillars of the temple laid His desperate hands, and in its overthrow Destroyed himself, and with him those who made A cruel mockery of his sightless woe ; The poor, blind Slave, the scoff and jest of all, Expired, and thousands perished in the fall! There is a poor, blind Samson in this land, Shorn of his strength, and bound in bonds of steel, Who may, in some grim revel, raise his hand, And shake the pillars of this Commonweal, Till the vast Temple of our liberties A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies;SONGS. SEA-WEED. Wuewn descends on the Atlantic The gigantic Storm-wind of the equinox, = Landward in his wrath he scourges Hi The toiling surges, Laden with sea-weed from the rocks: oe From Bermuda's reefs; from edges | Of sunken ledges, In some far-off, bright Azore ; From Bahama, and the dashing, Silver-flashing Surges of San Salvador ; If From the tumbling surf, that buries i The Orkneyan skerries, | Answering the hoarse Hebrides ; } And from wrecks of ships, and drifting Spars, uplifting On the desolate, rainy seas ;— Ever drifting, drifting, drifting i’ On the shifting Currents of the restless main; Till in sheltered coves, and reaches Of sandy beaches, All have found repose again. So when storms of wild emotion Strike the ocean Of the poet’s soul, ere long } From each cave and rocky fastness In its vastness, Floats some fragment of a songsTO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK. From the far-off isles enchanted, Heaven has planted With the golden fruit of Truth ; From the flashing surf, whose vision Gleams Elysian In the tropic clime of Youth ; From the strong Will and the Endeavour That for ever Wrestle with the tides.of Fate; From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, Tempest-shattered, Floating waste and desolate ;— Ever drifting, drifting, drifting On the shifting Currents of the restless heart; Till at length in books recorded, They, like hoarded Household words, no more depart. TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK, Wexcome, my old friend, Welcome to a foreign fire-side, While the sullen gales of autumn Shake the windows. The ungrateful world Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee, Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, First I met thee. There are marks of age, There are thumb-marks on thy margin, Made by hands that clasped thee rudely At the alehouse. Soiled and dull thou art; Vellow are thy time-worn pages, As the russet, rain-molested Leaves of autumn.SONGS. Thou art stained with wine Scattered from hilarious goblets, hese leaves with the libations DUS. rT = ‘ Ne ae eet <1 <<, — >) =) Days departed, half-forgotten, When in dreamy youth I wandered By the Baltre,—— When I paused to hear The old ballad of King Christian Shouted from suburban taverns In the twilight. Thou recallest bards, Who, in solitary chambers, And with hearts by passion wasted, Wrote thy pages. Thou recallest homes Where thy songs of love and friendship Made the gloomy Northern winter Bright as summer. Once some ancient Scald, fn his bleak, ancestral Iceland, Chanted staves of these old ballads To the Vikings. Once in Elsinore, At the court of old King Hamlet, Yorick and his boon companions Sang these ditties Once Prince Frederick’s Guard Sang them in their smoky barracks — Suddenly the English cannon Joined the chorus! Peasants in the field, Sailors on the roaring ocean, Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics, All have sung them.THE DANES DONE. Thou hast been their friend; They, alas, have left thee friendless? Yet at least by one warm fireside Art thou welcome. And, as swallows build In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys, So thy twittering songs shall nestle In my bosom,— Quiet, close, and warm, Sheltered from all molestation, And recalling by their voices Youth and travel. THE ARROW AND THE SONG. I sHorT an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where ; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke ; And the song from beginning to end, { found again in the heart of a friend THE DAY TS DONE: Tue day is done, and the darxn2s: Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight,: 86 SONGS. I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o.ef me, That my soul cannot resist : A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, | And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Hi Come, read to me some pocm, Be Some simple and heartfelt lay, rt That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of cay. maiG | Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of ‘Lime. For, like strains of martial music, ‘Their mighty thoughts suggest Life’s endless toil and endeavour ; And to-night I long for rest. meneame: Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start ; Who, through long days of labour, And nights devoid of ease, i | Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies. i Such songs have power to quiet mt The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer. ? Then read from the treasured volume | | The poem of thy choice, PE And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice.WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID, And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away. AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. THE day 1s ending, While through the meadows, The night is descending ; Like fearful shadows, The marsh is frozen, : Slowly passes The river dead. A funeral train. Through clouds like ashes The bell is pealing, ‘The red sun flashes And every feeling : On village windows Within me responds if That glimmer red. To the dismal knell ; if The snow recommentces ; Shadows are trailing, oo: The buried fences My heart is bewailing “ if Mark no longer And toiling within | i The road o’er the plain ; Like a funeral bell, | i i WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID.*. wh Acai VocEtweip the Minnesinger, When he left this world of ours, Laid his body in the cloister, Under Wiurtzburg’s minster towers. And he gave the monks his treasures, Gave them all with this behest: They should feed the birds at noontide Daily on his place of rest ; * Walter von der Vogelweid, or Bird-Meadow, was one of the principal Minne- singers of the thirteenth century. He triumphed over Heinrich von Ofterdingen in . s : VW that poetic contest at Wartburg Castle, known in literary history as the ‘War op { Wartburg.”SEE RN TR BO ego ee [ | h] SONGS. Saying, “ From these wandering minstrels I have learned the art of song; Let me now repay the lessons They have taught so well and long. Thus the bard of love departed ; And, fulfilling his desire, On his tomb the birds were feasted By the children of the choir. Day by day, o’er tower and turret, In foul weather and in fair, Day by day, in vaster numbers, Flocked the poets of the air. On the tree whose heavy branches Overshadowed all the place, On the pavement, on the tombstone, On the poet’s sculptured face, On the cross-bars of each window, On the lintel of each door, They renewed the War of Wartburg, Which the bard had fought before. There they sang their merry carols, Sang their lauds on every side ; And the name their voices uttered Was the name of Vogelweid. Till at length the portly abbot Murmured, “ Why this waste of food? Be it changed to loaves henceforward. For our fasting brotherhood.” Then in vain o’er tower and turret, From the walls and woodland nests, be When the minster bell rang noontide, : Gathered the unwelcome guests. Then in vain, with cries discordant, Clamorous round the Gothic spire, Screamed the feathered Minnesingers For the children of the choir,DRINKING SONG, Time has long effaced the inscriptions On the cloister’s funeral stones, And tradition only tells us Where repose the poet's bones, But around the vast cathedral, By sweet echoes multiplied, Still the birds repeat the legend, And the name of Vogelweid. eee DRINKING SONG. INSCRIPTION FOR AN ANTIQUE PITCHER, Come, old friend! sit down and listen! From the pitcher placed between us, How the waters laugh and glisten In the head of old Silenus! Old Silenus, bloated, drunken, Led by his inebriate Satyrs ; On his breast his head is sunken, Vacantly he leers and chatters. Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow ; Ivy crowns that brow supernal As the forehead of Apollo, And possessing youth eternal. Round about him, fair Bacchantes, Bearing cymbals, flutes, and thyrses, Wild from Naxian groves, or Zante’s Vineyards, sing delirious verses. Thus he won, through all the nations, Bloodless victories, and the farmer Bore, as trophies and oblations, Vines for banners, ploughs for armour Judged by no o’er-zealous rigour Much this mystic throng expresses : Bacchus was the type of vigour, And Silenus of excesses. 89FN ig EER i eg te er celia iy SONGS. These are ancient ethnic revels, | Of a faith long since forsaken ; Now the Satyrs, changed to devils, Frighten mortals wine-o ertaken. ge Now to rivulets from the mountains Point the rods of fortune-tellers ; Youth perpetual dwells in fountains,— Not in flasks, and casks and cellars. Claudius, though he sang of flagons And huge flagons filled with Rhenish, From that fiery blood of dragons Never would his own replenish. | Even Redi, though he chaunted Bacchus in the Tuscan valleys, Never drank the wine he vaunted In his dithyrambic sallies. Then with water fill the pitcher Mth Wreathed about with classic fables ; Ne’er Falernian threw a richer Light upon Lucullus’ tables. Come, old friend, sit down and listen! tt As it passes thus between us, || How its wavelets laugh and glisten In the head of old Silenus! eee THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. { | [L’éternité est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit sams cesse ces deux mots P| seulement, dans le silence des tombeaux: “ Toujours ! jamais ! Jamais! toujours |? ae Jacques BRIDAINE. | Somewuat back from the village street Stands the old-fashioned country-seat ; Across its antique portico Tall poplar trees their shadows throw, And from its station in the hall An ancient timepiece says to all, “ For ever—never ! Never—for-ever !”’THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. Halfway up the stairs it stands, And points and beckons with its hands From its case of massive oak, Like a monk, who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs, alas! With sorrowful voice to all who pass,—= * For ever—never ! Never—for ever.!”’ By day its voice is low and light ; But in the silent dead of night, Distinct as a passing footstep’s fall, It echoes along the vacant hall, Along the ceiling, along the floor, And seems to say at each chamber-door “For ever—never! Never—for ever!” Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Through days of death and days of birth, Through every swift vicissitude Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, And as if, like God, it all things saw, It calmly repeats those words of awe,— ““ For ever—never ! Never—for ever !"’ In that mansion used to be Free-hearted Hospitality; His great fires up the chimney roared ; The stranger feasted at his board; But, like the skeleton at the feast, That warning timepiece never ceased,— “‘ For ever—never ! Never—for ever!” There groups of merry children played, There youths and maidens dreaming strayed ; O precious hours! O golden prime, An affluence of love and time! Even as a miser counts his gold, Those hours the ancient timepiece told,— “ Hor ever—never ! Never—for ever!”SONGS. From that chamber, clothed in white, The bride came forth on her wedding night; There, in that silent room below, The dead lay in his shroud of snow ; And in the hush that followed the prayer, Was heard the old clock on the stair,— “‘ For ever—never ! Never—for ever !”’ All are scattered now and fled, Some are married, some are dead ; And when I ask, with throbs of pain, “Ah! when shall they all meet again?” As in the days long since gone by, The ancient timepiece makes reply,— “‘ For ever—never! Never—for ever!” Never here, for ever there, Where all parting, pain and care, And death, and time shall disappear,— For ever there, but never here! The horologe of Eternity Sayeth this incessantly,— “ For ever—never! Never—for ever!”* Charlemagne may be call to the German tradition, in seas a golden bridge at Bingen, and blesses the cornfields and the vineyards. SON IN ELS: AUTUMN. Txovu comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain, With banners, by great gales incessant fanned, Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand, And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain! Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne,* Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand QOutstretched with benedictions o’er the land, Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain. Thy shield is the red harvest moon suspended So long beneath the heaven’s o’erhanging eaves ; Thy steps are by the farmer’s prayers attended ; Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves ; And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid, Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves ! et DANTE. Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom, With thoughtful pace, and sad majestic eyes, Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise, Like Farinata from his fiery tomb. Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom ; Yet in thy heart what human sympathies, What soft compassion glows, as in the skies The tender stars their clouded lamps relume! Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks, By Fra Hilario in his diocese, ed by pre-eminence the monarch of farmers. According ons of great abundance his spirit crosses the Rhine on _SONNETS, As up the convent-walls, in golden streaks, The ascending sunbeams mark the day’s decrease ; And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks, Thy voice along the cloisters whispers, “‘ Peace!” THE EVENING STAR. Lo! in the painted oriel of the West, Whose panes the sunken sun incarnadines, Like a fair lady at her casement shines The Evening Star, the star of love and rest! And then anon she doth herself divest Of all her radiant garments, and reclines Behind the sombre screen of yonder pines, With slumber and soft dreams of love oppressed. O my beloved, my sweet Hesperus ! _ My morning and my evening star of love! Fi My best and gentlest lady! even thus, | As that fair planet in the sky above, Dost thou retire unto thy rest at night, And from thy darkened window fades the light. TO-MORROW. ‘Lis late at night, and in the realm of sleep My little lambs are folded like the flocks ; From room to room I hear the wakeful clocks | Challenge the passing hour, like guards that keen i | Their solitary watch on tower and steep ; | Far off I hear the crowing of the cocks, Fi And through the opening door that time unlock: ' Feel the fresh breathing of To-morrow creep. To-morrow! the mysterious, unknown cuest, a Who cries to me: “ Remember Barmecide, And tremble to be happy with the rest.”’ 7 And I make answer: “I am satisfied ; aE } I dare not ask; I know not what is best ; God hath already said what shall betide.”GlOTTO'S TOWER, GIOTTO’S TOWER. How many lives, made beautiful and sweet By self-devotion and by self-restraint,— Whose pleasure is to run without complaint On unknown errands of the Paraclete,— Wanting the reverence of unshodden feet, Fail of the nimbus which the artists paint Around the shining forehead of the saint, And are in their completeness incomplete. In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto’s tower, The lily of Florence blossoming in stone,— A vision, a delight, and a desire,— The builder’s perfect and centennial flower, That in the night of ages bloomed alone, But wanting still the glory of the spire, 95a Se ace a apa te Se ey Na THE SPANISH STUDENT. DRAMATIS PERSON. VICTORIAN . Students of Alcald. . Hypouiro Tue Count oF Lara) Fl Hi | Don CarLos Tue ARCHBISHOP OF TOLEDO. A CARDINAL. BELTRAN CruzADO. . . . . « Count of the Gipsies. BARTOLOME INONMAN © 5 60% 4. a. «4 young Gipsy. Tue Papre Cura oF GUADARRAMA. PEepro CORWSPOli) 10. FLO QQJ. Ue Acaide:! ANIGHON Gees tg 4, pum. PRANGCISGO2 £0 +. & 8 33). = Wara’s Servant. GHISPA” ey 2 6 ek 3. WP es ee EL ctorian’s Séruant: IBATAVASAR yu i ek ges. Innkeeper. RECHOSA ne et A Gipsy Girl. INNGEIIGN 6 fe 6 6 poor Girl. IVDO ek StS he Padre Cura’s Niece. DoLorEs . . Preciosa’s Maid. Gipsies, Musicians, &c. - Gentlemen of Madrid. ALC TI. ScENE I—The Count or Lara’s Chamlers. Wight. The Count in his dressings §0wr, smoking and conversing with Don Caruos. Lara. You were not at the play to-night, Don Carlos; L| How happened it? aa Carlos. Iiehacd engagements elsewhere. 3 Pray who was there? Lara. Why, all the town and court. The house was crowded; and the busy fans Among the gaily dressed and perfumed ladies Fluttered like butterflies among the flowers. There was the Countess of Medina Celi; a The Goblin Lady with her Phantom Lover, 7 Her Lindo Don Diego; Doiia Sol, a And Dofia Serafina, and her cousins.TES SP ANTESEP SELOGD ENE. Carlos. What was the play? Lara. It was a dull affair ; One of those comedies in which you see, As Lope says, the history of the world Brought down from Genesis to the Day of Judgment. There were three duels fought in the first act, Three gentlemen receiving deadly wounds, Laying their hands upon their hearts, and saying, «