Birds of passage.

... come i gru van cantando lor lai, Facendo in aer di sè lunga riga. Dante.

Of Prometheus, how undaunted On Olympus’ shining bastions His audacious foot he planted, Myths are told and songs are chanted, Full of promptings and suggestions. Beautiful is the tradition Of that flight through heavenly portals, The old classic superstition Of the theft and the transmission Of the fire of the Immortals! First the deed of noble daring, Born of heavenward aspiration, Then the fire with mortals sharing, Then the vulture,—the despairing Cry of pain on crags Caucasian. All is but a symbol painted Of the Poet, Prophet, Seer; Only those are crowned and sainted Who with grief have been acquainted, Making nations nobler, freer. In their feverish exultations, In their triumph and their yearning, In their passionate pulsations, In their words among the nations, The Promethean fire is burning. Shall it, then, be unavailing, All this toil for human culture? Through the cloud-rack, dark and trailing Must they see above them sailing O’er life’s barren crags the vulture? Such a fate as this was Dante’s, By defeat and exile maddened; Thus were Milton and Cervantes, Nature’s priests and Corybantes, By affliction touched and saddened. But the glories so transcendent That around their memories cluster, And, on all their steps attendant, Make their darkened lives resplendent With such gleams of inward lustre! All the melodies mysterious, Through the dreary darkness chanted; Thoughts in attitudes imperious, Voices soft, and deep, and serious, Words that whispered, songs that haunted! All the soul in rapt suspension, All the quivering, palpitating Chords of life in utmost tension, With the fervour of invention, With the rapture of creating! Ah, Prometheus! heaven-scaling! In such hours of exultation Even the faintest heart, unquailing, Might behold the vulture sailing Round the cloudy crags Caucasian! Though to all there is not given Strength for such sublime endeavour, Thus to scale the walls of heaven, And to leaven with fiery leaven All the hearts of men for ever; Yet all bards, whose hearts unblighted Honour and believe the presage, Hold aloft their torches lighted, Gleaming through the realms benighted, As they onward bear the message!

Saint Augustine! well hast thou said, That of our vices we can frame A ladder,⁠[47] if we will but tread Beneath our feet each deed of shame! All common things, each day’s events, That with the hour begin and end, Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend. The low desire, the base design, That makes another’s virtues less; The revel of the ruddy wine, And all occasions of excess; The longing for ignoble things; The strife for triumph more than truth; The hardening of the heart, that brings Irreverence for the dreams of youth; All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds, That have their roots in thoughts of ill; Whatever hinders or impedes The action of the nobler will;— All these must first be trampled down Beneath our feet, if we would gain In the bright fields of fair renown The right of eminent domain. We have not wings, we cannot soar; But we have feet to scale and climb By slow degrees, by more and more, The cloudy summits of our time. The mighty pyramids of stone That wedge-like cleave the desert airs, When nearer seen, and better known, Are but gigantic flights of stairs. The distant mountains, that uprear Their solid bastions to the skies, Are crossed by pathways, that appear As we to higher levels rise. The heights by great men reached and kept Were not attained by sudden flight, But they, while their companions slept, Were toiling upward in the night. Standing on what too long we bore With shoulders bent and downcast eyes, We may discern—unseen before— A path to higher destinies. Nor deem the irrevocable Past As wholly wasted, wholly vain, If, rising on its wrecks, at last To something nobler we attain.

Black shadows fall From the lindens tall, That lift aloft their massive wall Against the southern sky; And from the realms Of the shadowy elms A tide-like darkness overwhelms The fields that round us lie. But the night is fair, And everywhere A warm, soft vapour fills the air, And distant sounds seem near; And above, in the light Of the star-lit night, Swift birds of passage wing their flight Through the dewy atmosphere. I hear the beat Of their pinions fleet, As from the land of snow and sleet They seek a southern lea. I hear the cry Of their voices high Falling dreamily through the sky, But their forms I cannot see. O, say not so! Those sounds that flow In murmurs of delight and woe Come not from wings of birds. They are the throngs Of the poet’s songs, Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs, The sounds of wingèd words. This is the cry Of souls, that high On toiling, beating pinions, fly, Seeking a warmer clime. From their distant flight Through realms of light It falls into our world of night, With the murmuring sound of rhyme.

In Mather’s Magnalia Christi, Of the old colonial time, May be found in prose the legend That is here set down in rhyme. A ship sailed from New Haven, And the keen and frosty airs, That filled her sails at parting, Were heavy with good men’s prayers. “O Lord! if it be thy pleasure”— Thus prayed the old divine— “To bury our friends in the ocean, Take them, for they are thine!” But Master Lamberton muttered, And under his breath said he, “This ship is so crank and walty, I fear our grave she will be!” And the ship that came from England, When the winter months were gone, Brought no tidings of this vessel, Nor of Master Lamberton. This put the people to praying That the Lord would let them hear What in his greater wisdom He had done with friends so dear. And at last their prayers were answered:— It was in the month of June, An hour before the sunset Of a windy afternoon, When, steadily steering landward, A ship was seen below, And they knew it was Lamberton, Master, Who sailed so long ago. On she came, with a cloud of canvas, Right against the wind that blew, Until the eye could distinguish The faces of the crew. Then fell her straining topmasts, Hanging tangled in the shrouds, And her sails were loosened and lifted, And blown away like clouds. And the masts, with all their rigging, Fell slowly, one by one, And the hulk dilated and vanished, As a sea-mist in the sun! And the people who saw this marvel Each said unto his friend, That this was the mould of their vessel, And thus her tragic end. And the pastor of the village Gave thanks to God in prayer, That, to quiet their troubled spirits, He had sent this Ship of Air.

A mist was driving down the British Channel, The day was just begun, And through the window-panes, on floor and panel, Streamed the red autumn sun. It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon, And the white sails of ships; And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon Hailed it with feverish lips. Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and Dover, Were all alert that day, To see the French war-steamers speeding over, When the fog cleared away. Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, Their cannon through the night, Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance, The sea-coast opposite. And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations On every citadel; Each answering each, with morning salutations, That all was well. And down the coast, all taking up the burden, Replied the distant forts, As if to summon from his sleep the Warden And Lord of the Cinque Ports. Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure, No drum-beat from the wall, No morning gun from the black fort’s embrasure Awaken with its call! No more, surveying with an eye impartial The long line of the coast, Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field-Marshal Be seen upon his post! For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, In sombre harness mailed, Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, The rampart wall has scaled. He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, The dark and silent room, And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper, The silence and the gloom. He did not pause to parley or dissemble, But smote the Warden hoar; Ah! what a blow! that made all England tremble, And groan from shore to shore. Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, The sun rose bright o’erhead: Nothing in Nature’s aspect intimated That a great man was dead.

All houses wherein men have lived and died Are haunted houses. Through the open doors The harmless phantoms on their errands glide, With feet that make no sound upon the floors. We meet them at the doorway, on the stair, Along the passages they come and go, Impalpable impressions on the air, A sense of something moving to and fro. There are more guests at table than the hosts Invited; the illuminated hall Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts, As silent as the pictures on the wall. The stranger at my fireside cannot see The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear; He but perceives what is; while unto me All that has been is visible and clear. We have no title-deeds to house or lands; Owners and occupants of earlier dates From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands, And hold in mortmain still their old estates. The spirit-world around this world of sense Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere Wafts through these earthly mists and vapours dense A vital breath of more ethereal air. Our little lives are kept in equipoise By opposite attractions and desires; The struggle of the instinct that enjoys, And the more noble instinct that aspires. These perturbations, this perpetual jar Of earthly wants and aspirations high, Come from the influence of an unseen star, An undiscovered planet in our sky. And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud Throws o’er the sea a floating bridge of light, Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd Into the realm of mystery and night,— So from the world of spirits there descends A bridge of light, connecting it with this, O’er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends, Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.

Once the Emperor Charles of Spain With his swarthy, grave commanders, I forget in what campaign, Long besieged, in mud and rain, Some old frontier town of Flanders. Up and down the dreary camp, In great boots of Spanish leather, Striding with a measured tramp, These Hidalgos, dull and damp, Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the weather. Thus as to and fro they went, Over upland and through hollow, Giving their impatience vent, Perched upon the Emperor’s tent, In her nest, they spied a swallow. Yes, it was a swallow’s nest, Built, of clay and hair of horses, Mane or tail, or dragoon’s crest, Found on hedge-rows east and west, After skirmish of the forces. Then an old Hidalgo said, As he twirled his grey mustachio, “Sure this swallow overhead Thinks the Emperor’s tent a shed, And the Emperor but a Macho!”⁠[50] Hearing his imperial name Coupled with those words of malice, Half in anger, half in shame, Forth the great campaigner came Slowly from his canvas palace. “Let no hand the bird molest,” Said he solemnly, “nor hurt her!” Adding then, by way of jest, “Golondrina⁠[51] is my guest, ’Tis the wife of some deserter!” Swift as bow-string speeds a shaft, Through the camp was spread the rumour, And the soldiers, as they quaffed Flemish beer at dinner, laughed At the Emperor’s pleasant humour. So unharmed and unafraid Sat the swallow still and brooded, Till the constant cannonade Through the walls a breach had made, And the siege was thus concluded. Then the army, elsewhere bent, Struck its tents as if disbanding, Only not the Emperor’s tent, For he ordered, ere he went, Very curtly, “Leave it standing.” So it stood there all alone, Loosely flapping, torn and tattered, Till the brood was fledged and flown, Singing o’er those walls of stone Which the cannon-shot had shattered.

In the village churchyard she lies, Dust is in her beautiful eyes, No more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs; At her feet and at her head Lies a slave to attend the dead, But their dust is white as hers. Was she a lady of high degree, So much in love with the vanity And foolish pomp of this world of ours; Or was it Christian charity, And lowliness and humility, The richest and rarest of all dowers? Who shall tell us? No one speaks; No colour shoots into those cheeks, Either of anger or of pride, At the rude question we have asked; Nor will the mystery be unmasked By those who are sleeping at her side. Hereafter?—And do you think to look On the terrible pages of that Book To find her failings, faults, and errors? Ah, you will then have other cares, In your own shortcomings and despairs, In your own secret sins and terrors!

Two angels, one of Life and one of Death, Passed o’er our village as the morning broke; The dawn was on their faces, and beneath, The sombre houses hearsed with plumes of smoke. Their attitude and aspect were the same, Alike their features and their robes of white; But one was crowned with amaranth, as with flame, And one with asphodels, like flakes of light. I saw them pause on their celestial way; Then said I, with deep fear and doubt oppressed, “Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray The place where thy belovèd are at rest!” And he who wore the crown of asphodels, Descending, at my door began to knock, And my soul sank within me, as in wells The waters sink before an earthquake’s shock. I recognised the nameless agony, The terror and the tremor and the pain, That oft before had filled or haunted me, And now returned with threefold strength again. The door I opened to my heavenly guest, And listened, for I thought I heard God’s voice; And, knowing whatsoe’er he sent was best, Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice. Then with a smile, that filled the house with light, “My errand is not Death, but Life,” he said; And, ere I answered, passing out of sight, On his celestial embassy he sped. ’Twas at thy door, O friend! and not at mine, The angel with the amaranthine wreath, Pausing, descended, and with voice divine, Whispered a word that had a sound like Death. Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, A shadow on those features, fair and thin; And softly, from that hushed and darkened room, Two angels issued, where but one went in. All is of God! If he but wave his hand, The mists collect, the rain falls thick and loud, Till, with a smile of light on sea and land, Lo! he looks back from the departing cloud. Angels of Life and Death alike are his; Without his leave they pass no threshold o’er; Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this, Against his messengers to shut the door?

In the Valley of the Vire Still is seen an ancient mill, With its gables quaint and queer, And beneath the window-sill, On the stone, These words alone: “Oliver Basselin lived here.” Far above it, on the steep, Ruined stands the old Château; Nothing but the donjon-keep Left for shelter or for show. Its vacant eyes Stare at the skies, Stare at the valley green and deep. Once a convent, old and brown, Looked, but ah! it looks no more, From the neighbouring hill-side down On the rushing and the roar Of the stream Whose sunny gleam Cheers the little Norman town. In that darksome mill of stone, To the water’s dash and din, Careless, humble, and unknown, Sang the poet Basselin Songs that fill That ancient mill With a splendour of its own. Never feeling of unrest Broke the pleasant dream he dreamed; Only made to be his nest, All the lovely valley seemed; No desire Of soaring higher Stirred or fluttered in his breast. True, his songs were not divine; Were not songs of that high art, Which, as winds do in the pine, Find an answer in each heart; But the mirth Of this green earth Laughed and revelled in his line. From the alehouse and the inn, Opening on the narrow street, Came the loud, convivial din, Singing and applause of feet, The laughing lays That in those days Sang the poet Basselin. In the castle, cased in steel, Knights, who fought at Agincourt, Watched and waited, spur on heel; But the poet sang for sport Songs that rang Another clang, Songs that lowlier hearts could feel. In the convent, clad in grey, Sat the monks in lonely cells, Paced the cloisters, knelt to pray, And the poet heard their bells; But his rhymes Found other chimes, Nearer to the earth than they. Gone are all the barons bold, Gone are all the knights and squires, Gone the abbot stern and cold, And the brotherhood of friars; Not a name Remains to fame, From those mouldering days of old! But the poet’s memory here Of the landscape makes a part; Like the river, swift and clear, Flows his song through many a heart; Haunting still That ancient mill, In the Valley of the Vire.

How strange it seems! These Hebrews in their graves, Close by the street of this fair seaport town, Silent beside the never-silent waves, At rest in all this moving up and down. The trees are white with dust, that o’er their sleep Wave their broad curtains in the south wind’s breath, While underneath these leafy tents they keep The long mysterious Exodus of Death. And these sepulchral stones, so old and brown, That pave with level flags their burial-place, Seem like the tablets of the Law, thrown down And broken by Moses at the mountain’s base. The very names recorded here are strange, Of foreign accent, and of different climes; Alvares and Rivera interchange With Abraham and Jacob of old times. “Blessed be God! for he created Death!” The mourner said, “and Death is rest and peace;” Then added, in the certainty of faith, “And giveth Life that never more shall cease.” Closed are the portals of their Synagogue, No Psalms of David now the silence break, No Rabbi reads the ancient Decalogue In the grand dialect the Prophets spake. Gone are the living, but the dead remain, And not neglected; for a hand unseen, Scattering its bounty, like a summer-rain, Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green. How came they here? What burst of Christian hate, What persecution, merciless and blind, Drove o’er the sea—that desert desolate— These Ishmaels and Hagars of mankind? They lived in narrow streets and lanes obscure, Ghetto and Judenstrass, in mirk and mire; Taught in the school of patience to endure The life of anguish and the death of fire. All their lives long, with the unleavened bread And bitter herbs of exile and its fears, The wasting famine of the heart they fed, And slaked its thirst with Marah of their tears. Anathema maranatha! was the cry That rang from town to town, from street to street; At every gate the accursed Mordecai Was mocked and jeered, and spurned by Christian feet. Pride and humiliation hand in hand Walked with them through the world where’er they went, Trampled and beaten were they as the sand, And yet unshaken as the continent. For in the background figures vague and vast Of patriarchs and of prophets rose sublime, And all the great traditions of the past They saw reflected in the coming time. And thus for ever with reverted look The mystic volume of the world they read, Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew book, Till life became a Legend of the Dead. But ah! what once has been shall be no more! The groaning earth in travail and in pain Brings forth its races, but does not restore, And the dead nations never rise again.

Under the walls of Monterey At daybreak the bugles began to play, Victor Galbraith! In the mist of the morning damp and grey, These were the words they seemed to say: “Come forth to thy death, Victor Galbraith!” Forth he came, with a martial tread; Firm was his step, erect his head; Victor Galbraith, He who so well the bugle played, Could not mistake the words it said: “Come forth to thy death, Victor Galbraith!” He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky, He looked at the files of musketry, Victor Galbraith! And he said, with a steady voice and eye, “Take good aim; I am ready to die!” Thus challenges death Victor Galbraith. Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and red, Six leaden balls on their errand sped; Victor Galbraith Falls to the ground, but he is not dead; His name was not stamped on those balls of lead, And they only scath Victor Galbraith. Three balls are in his breast and brain, But he rises out of the dust again, Victor Galbraith! The water he drinks has a bloody stain; “O kill me, and put me out of my pain!” In his agony prayeth Victor Galbraith. Forth dart once more those tongues of flame, And the bugler has died a death of shame, Victor Galbraith! His soul has gone back to whence it came, And no one answers to the name, When the Sergeant saith, “Victor Galbraith!” Under the walls of Monterey By night a bugle is heard to play, Victor Galbraith! Through the mist of the valley damp and grey The sentinels hear the sound, and say, “That is the wraith Of Victor Galbraith!”

In broad daylight, and at noon, Yesterday I saw the moon Sailing high, but faint and white, As a schoolboy’s paper kite. In broad daylight yesterday, I read a Poet’s mystic lay; And it seemed to me at most As a phantom, or a ghost. But at length the feverish day Like a passion died away, And the night, serene and still, Fell on village, vale, and hill. Then the moon, in all her pride, Like a spirit glorified, Filled and overflowed the night With revelations of her light. And the Poet’s song again Passed like music through my brain; Night interpreted to me All its grace and mystery.

Often I think of the beautiful town That is seated by the sea; Often in thought go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And my youth comes back to me. And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, And catch, in sudden gleams, The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, And islands that were the Hesperides Of all my boyish dreams. And the burden of that old song, It murmurs and whispers still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” I remember the black wharves and the slips, And the sea-tides tossing free; And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea. And the voice of that wayward song Is singing and saying still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” I remember the bulwarks by the shore, And the fort upon the hill; The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, The drum-beat repeated o’er and o’er, And the bugle wild and shrill. And the music of that old song Throbs in my memory still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” I remember the sea-fight far away,⁠[55] How it thundered o’er the tide! And the dead captains, as they lay in their graves o’erlooking the tranquil bay, Where they in battle died. And the sound of that mournful song Goes through me with a thrill: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” I can see the breezy dome of groves, The shadows of Deering’s Woods; And the friendships old and the early loves Come back with a sabbath sound, as of doves In quiet neighbourhoods. And the verse of that sweet old song, It flutters and murmurs still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” I remember the gleams and glooms that dart Across the schoolboy’s brain; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song Sings on, and is never still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” There are things of which I may not speak; There are dreams that cannot die; There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye. And the words of that fatal song Come over me like a chill: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” Strange to me now are the forms I meet When I visit the dear old town; But the native air is pure and sweet, And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street, As they balance up and down, Are singing the beautiful song, Are sighing and whispering still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” And Deering’s Woods are fresh and fair, And with joy that is almost pain My heart goes back to wander there, And among the dreams of the days that were, I find my lost youth again. And the strange and beautiful song, The groves are repeating it still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

In that building, long and low, With its windows all a-row, Like the port-holes of a hulk, Human spiders spin and spin, Backward down their threads so thin Dropping, each a hempen bulk. At the end an open door; Squares of sunshine on the floor Light the long and dusky lane; And the whirring of a wheel, Dull and drowsy, makes me feel All its spokes are in my brain. As the spinners to the end Downward go and re-ascend, Gleam the long threads in the sun; While within this brain of mine Cobwebs brighter and more fine By the busy wheel are spun. Two fair maidens in a swing, Like white doves upon the wing, First before my vision pass; Laughing, as their gentle hands Closely clasp the twisted strands, At their shadow on the grass. Then a booth of mountebanks, With its smell of tan and planks, And a girl poised high in air On a cord, in spangled dress, With a faded loveliness, And a weary look of care. Then a homestead among farms, And a woman with bare arms Drawing water from a well; As the bucket mounts apace, With it mounts her own fair face, As at some magician’s spell. Then an old man in a tower, Ringing loud the noontide hour, While the rope coils round and round, Like a serpent at his feet, And again, in swift retreat, Nearly lifts him from the ground. Then within a prison-yard, Faces fixed, and stern, and hard, Laughter and indecent mirth; Ah! it is the gallows-tree; Breath of Christian charity, Blow, and sweep it from the earth! Then a schoolboy, with his kite, Gleaming in a sky of light, And an eager, upward look; Steeds pursued through lane and field; Fowlers with their snares concealed; And an angler by a brook. Ships rejoicing in the breeze, Wrecks that float o’er unknown seas, Anchors dragged through faithless sand; Sea-fog drifting overhead, And, with lessening line and lead, Sailors feeling for the land. All these scenes do I behold, These, and many left untold, In that building long and low; While the wheel goes round and round, With a drowsy, dreamy sound, And the spinners backward go.

Leafless are the trees; their purple branches Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of coral, Rising silent In the Red Sea of the Winter sunset. From the hundred chimneys of the village, Like the Afreet in the Arabian story, Smoky columns Tower aloft into the air of amber. At the window winks the flickering fire-light; Here and there the lamps of evening glimmer, Social watch-fires Answering one another through the darkness. On the hearth the lighted logs are glowing, And like Ariel in the cloven pine-tree For its freedom Groans and sighs the air imprisoned in them. By the fireside there are old men seated, Seeing ruined cities in the ashes, Asking sadly Of the Past what it can ne’er restore them. By the fireside there are youthful dreamers, Building castles fair, with stately stairways, Asking blindly Of the Future what it cannot give them. By the fireside tragedies are acted In whose scenes appear two actors only, Wife and husband, And above them God the sole spectator. By the fireside there are peace and comfort, Wives and children, with fair, thoughtful faces, Waiting, watching For a well-known footstep in the passage. Each man’s chimney is his Golden Milestone, Is the central point from which he measures Every distance Through the gateways of the world around him. In his farthest wanderings still he sees it; Hears the talking flame, the answering night-wind, As he heard them When he sat with those who were, but are not. Happy he whom neither wealth nor fashion, Nor the march of the encroaching city, Drives an exile From the hearth of his ancestral homestead. We may build more splendid habitations, Fill our rooms with paintings and with sculptures, But we cannot Buy with gold the old associations!

This song of mine Is a Song of the Vine, To be sung by the glowing embers Of wayside inns, When the rain begins To darken the drear Novembers. It is not a song Of the Scuppernong, From warm Carolinian valleys, Nor the Isabel And the Muscadel That bask in our garden alleys. Nor the red Mustang, Whose clusters hang O’er the waves of the Colorado, And the fiery flood Of whose purple blood Has a dash of Spanish bravado. For richest and best Is the wine of the West, That grows by the Beautiful River; Whose sweet perfume Fills all the room With a benison on the giver. And as hollow trees Are the haunts of bees, For ever going and coming; So this crystal hive Is all alive With a swarming and buzzing and humming. Very good in its way Is the Verzenay, Or the Sillery soft and creamy; But Catawba wine Has a taste more divine, More dulcet, delicious, and dreamy. There grows no vine By the haunted Rhine, By Danube or Guadalquivir, Nor on island or cape, That bears such a grape As grows by the Beautiful River. Drugged is their juice For foreign use, When shipped o’er the reeling Atlantic, To rack our brains, With the fever pains, That have driven the Old World frantic. To the sewers and sinks With all such drinks, And after them tumble the mixer; For a poison malign Is such Borgia wine, Or at best but a Devil’s Elixir. While pure as a spring Is the wine I sing, And to praise it, one needs but name it; For Catawba wine Has need of no sign, No tavern-bush to proclaim it. And this Song of the Vine, This greeting of mine, The winds and the birds shall deliver To the Queen of the West, In her garlands dressed, On the banks of the Beautiful River.

A wind came up out of the sea, And said, “O mists, make room for me.” It hailed the ships, and cried, “Sail on, Ye mariners, the night is gone.” And hurried landward far away, Crying, “Awake! it is the day.” It said unto the forest, “Shout! Hang all your leafy banners out!” It touched the wood-bird’s folded wing, And said, “O bird, awake and sing.” And o’er the farms, “O chanticleer, Your clarion blow; the day is near.” It whispered to the fields of corn, “Bow down, and hail the coming morn.” It shouted through the belfry-tower, “Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour.” It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, And said, “Not yet! in quiet lie.”

Whene’er a noble deed is wrought, Whene’er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts, in glad surprise, To higher levels rise. The tidal wave of deeper souls Into our inmost being rolls, And lifts us unawares Out of all meaner cares. Honour to those whose words or deeds Thus help us in our daily needs, And by their overflow Raise us from what is low! Thus thought I, as by night I read Of the great army of the dead, The trenches cold and damp, The starved and frozen camp,— The wounded from the battle-plain, In dreary hospitals of pain, The cheerless corridors, The cold and stony floors. Lo! in that house of misery A lady with a lamp I see Pass through the glimmering gloom, And flit from room to room. And slow, as in a dream of bliss, The speechless sufferer turns to kiss Her shadow, as it falls Upon the darkening walls. As if a door in heaven should be Opened and then closed suddenly, The vision came and went, The light shone and was spent. On England’s annals, through the long Hereafter of her speech and song, That light its rays shall cast From portals of the past. A Lady with a Lamp shall stand In the great history of the land, A noble type of good, Heroic womanhood. Nor even shall be wanting here The palm, the lily, and the spear, The symbols that of yore Saint Filomena bore.

It was fifty years ago, In the pleasant month of May, In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, A child in its cradle lay. And Nature, the old nurse, took The child upon her knee, Saying: “Here is a story-book Thy Father has written for thee.” “Come, wander with me,” she said, “Into regions yet untrod; And read what is still unread In the manuscripts of God.” And he wandered away and away With Nature, the dear old nurse, Who sang to him night and day The rhymes of the universe. And whenever the way seemed long, Or his heart began to fail, She would sing a more wonderful song, Or tell a more marvellous tale. So she keeps him still a child, And will not let him go, Though at times his heart beats wild For the beautiful Pays de Vaud; Though at times he hears in his dreams The Ranz des Vaches of old, And the rush of mountain streams From glaciers clear and cold; And the mother at home says, “Hark! For his voice I listen and yearn; It is growing late and dark, And my boy does not return!”

Othere, the old sea-captain, Who dwelt in Helgoland, To King Alfred, the Lover of Truth, Brought a snow-white walrus-tooth, Which he held in his brown right hand. His figure was tall and stately, Like a boy’s his eye appeared; His hair was yellow as hay, But threads of a silvery grey Gleamed in his tawny beard. Hearty and hale was Othere, His cheek had the colour of oak; With a kind of laugh in his speech, Like the sea-tide on a beach, As unto the king he spoke. And Alfred, King of the Saxons, Had a book upon his knees, And wrote down the wondrous tale Of him who was first to sail Into the Arctic seas. “So far I live to the northward, No man lives north of me; To the east are wild mountain-chains, And beyond them meres and plains; To the westward all is sea. “So far I live to the northward, From the harbour of Skeringes-hale, If you only sailed by day, With a fair wind all the way, More than a month would you sail. “I own six hundred reindeer, With sheep and swine beside; I have tribute from the Finns, Whalebone and reindeer-skins, And ropes of walrus-hide. “I ploughed the land with horses, But my heart was ill at ease, For the old seafaring men Came to me now and then, With their sagas of the seas;— “Of Iceland and of Greenland, And the stormy Hebrides, And the undiscovered deep;— I could not eat nor sleep For thinking of those seas. “To the northward stretched the desert, How far I fain would know; So at last I sallied forth, And three days sailed due north, As far as the whale-ships go. “To the west of me was the ocean, To the right the desolate shore, But I did not slacken sail For the walrus or the whale, Till after three days more. “The days grew longer and longer, Till they became as one, And southward through the haze I saw the sullen blaze Of the red midnight sun. “And then uprose before me, Upon the water’s edge, The huge and haggard shape Of that unknown North Cape, Whose form is like a wedge. “The sea was rough and stormy, The tempest howled and wailed, And the sea-fog, like a ghost, Haunted that dreary coast, But onward still I sailed. “Four days I steered to eastward, Four days without a night: Round in a fiery ring Went the great sun, O King, With red and lurid light.” Here Alfred, King of the Saxons, Ceased writing for a while; And raised his eyes from his book, With a strange and puzzled look, And an incredulous smile. But Othere, the old sea-captain, He neither paused nor stirred, Till the King listened, and then Once more took up his pen, And wrote down every word. “And now the land,” said Othere, “Bent southward suddenly, And I followed the curving shore, And ever southward bore Into a nameless sea. “And there we hunted the walrus, The narwhale, and the seal; Ha! ’twas a noble game! And like the lightning’s flame Flew our harpoons of steel. “There were six of us all together, Norsemen of Helgoland; In two days and no more We killed of them threescore, And dragged them to the strand!” Here Alfred, the Truth-Teller, Suddenly closed his book, And lifted his blue eyes, With doubt and strange surmise Depicted in their look. And Othere the old sea-captain Stared at him wild and weird, Then smiled, till his shining teeth Gleamed white from underneath His tawny, quivering beard. And to the King of the Saxons, In witness of the truth, Raising his noble head, He stretched his brown hand, and said, “Behold this walrus-tooth!”

Come to me, O ye children! For I hear you at your play, And the questions that perplexed me Have vanished quite away. Ye open the eastern windows, That look towards the sun, Where thoughts are singing swallows, And the brooks of morning run. In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, In your thoughts the brooklet’s flow, But in mine is the wind of Autumn, And the first fall of the snow. Ah! what would the world be to us, If the children were no more? We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before. What the leaves are to the forest, With light and air for food, Ere their sweet and tender juices Have been hardened into wood,— That to the world are children; Through them it feels the glow Of a brighter and sunnier climate Than reaches the trunks below. Come to me, O ye children! And whisper in my ear What the birds and the winds are singing In your sunny atmosphere. For what are all our contrivings, And the wisdom of our books, When compared with your caresses, And the gladness of your looks? Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead.

Have you read in the Talmud of old, In the Legends the Rabbins have told Of the limitless realms of the air,— Have you read it,—the marvellous story Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer? How, erect, at the outermost gates Of the City Celestial he waits, With his feet on the ladder of light, That, crowded with angels unnumbered, By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered Alone in the desert at night? The Angels of Wind and of Fire Chant only one hymn, and expire With the song’s irresistible stress; Expire in their rapture and wonder, As harp-strings are broken asunder By music they throb to express. But serene in the rapturous throng, Unmoved by the rush of the song, With eyes unimpassioned and slow, Among the dead angels, the deathless Sandalphon stands listening breathless To sounds that ascend from below;— From the spirits on earth that adore, From the souls that entreat and implore In the fervour and passion of prayer; From the hearts that are broken with losses, And weary with dragging the crosses Too heavy for mortals to bear. And he gathers the prayers as he stands, And they change into flowers in his hands, Into garlands of purple and red; And beneath the great arch of the portal, Through the streets of the City Immortal Is wafted the fragrance they shed. It is but a legend, I know,— A fable, a phantom, a show, Of the ancient Rabbinical lore; Yet the old mediæval tradition, The beautiful, strange superstition, But haunts me and holds me the more. When I look from window at night, And the welkin above is all white, All throbbing and panting with stars, Among them majestic is standing Sandalphon the angel, expanding His pinions in nebulous bars. And the legend, I feel, is a part Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, The frenzy and fire of the brain, That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, The golden pomegranates of Eden, To quiet its fever and pain.

Have I dreamed? or was it real, What I saw as in a vision, When to marches hymeneal In the land of the Ideal Moved my thought o’er Fields Elysian? What! are these the guests whose glances Seemed like sunshine gleaming round me? These the wild, bewildering fancies, That with dithyrambic dances, As with magic circles, bound me? Ah! how cold are their caresses! Pallid cheeks, and haggard bosoms! Spectral gleam their snow-white dresses, And from loose, dishevelled tresses Fall the hyacinthine blossoms! O my songs! whose winsome measures Filled my heart with secret rapture! Children of my golden leisures! Must even your delights and pleasures Fade and perish with the capture? Fair they seemed, those songs sonorous, When they came to me unbidden; Voices single, and in chorus, Like the wild birds singing o’er us In the dark of branches hidden. Disenchantment! Disillusion! Must each noble aspiration Come at last to this conclusion, Jarring discord, wild confusion, Lassitude, renunciation? Not with steeper fall nor faster, From the sun’s serene dominions, Not through brighter realms nor vaster, In swift ruin and disaster, Icarus fell with shattered pinions! Sweet Pandora! dear Pandora! Why did mighty Jove create thee Coy as Thetis, fair as Flora, Beautiful as young Aurora, If to win thee is to hate thee? No, not hate thee! for this feeling Of unrest and long resistance Is but passionate appealing, A prophetic whisper stealing O’er the chords of our existence. Him whom thou dost once enamour, Thou, belovèd, never leavest; In life’s discord, strife, and clamour, Still he feels thy spell of glamour; Him of Hope thou ne’er bereavest. Weary hearts by thee are lifted, Struggling souls by thee are strengthened, Clouds of fear asunder rifted, Truth from falsehood cleansed and sifted, Lives, like days in summer, lengthened! Therefore art thou ever dearer, O my Sibyl, my deceiver! For thou makest each mystery clearer, And the unattained seems nearer, When thou fillest my heart with fever! Muse of all the Gifts and Graces! Though the fields around us wither, There are ampler realms and spaces, Where no foot has left its traces: Let us turn and wander thither!

O gift of God! O perfect day: Whereon shall no man work, but play; Whereon it is enough for me, Not to be doing, but to be! Through every fibre of my brain, Through every nerve, through every vein, I feel the electric thrill, the touch Of life, that seems almost too much. I hear the wind among the trees Playing celestial symphonies; I see the branches downward bent, Like keys of some great instrument. And over me unrolls on high The splendid scenery of the sky, Where through a sapphire sea the sun Sails like a golden galleon, Towards yonder cloud-land in the West, Towards yonder Islands of the Blest, Whose steep sierra far uplifts Its craggy summits white with drifts. Blow, winds! and waft through all the rooms The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms! Blow, winds! and bend within my reach The fiery blossoms of the peach. O Life and Love! O happy throng Of thoughts, whose only speech is song! O heart of man! canst thou not be Blithe as the air is, and as free?

Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day’s occupations That is known as the Children’s Hour. I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet. From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair. A whisper and then a silence; Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise. A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall! By three doors left unguarded They enter my castle wall! They climb up into my turret O’er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape they surround me; They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen In his Mouse Tower on the Rhine! Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old moustache as I am Is not a match for you all! I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeon In the round-tower of my heart. And there will I keep you for ever, Yes, for ever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away!

Under Mount Etna he lies, It is slumber, it is not death; For he struggles at times to arise, And above him the lurid skies Are hot with his fiery breath. The crags are piled on his breast, The earth is heaped on his head; But the groans of his wild unrest, Though smothered and half suppressed, Are heard, and he is not dead. And the nations far away Are watching with eager eyes; They talk together and say, “To-morrow, perhaps to-day, Enceladus will arise!” And the old gods, the austere Oppressors in their strength, Stand aghast and white with fear At the ominous sounds they hear, And tremble, and mutter, “At length!” Ah me! for the land that is sown With the harvest of despair, Where the burning cinders, blown From the lips of the overthrown Enceladus, fill the air. Where ashes are heaped in drifts Over vineyard and field and town, Whenever he starts and lifts His head through the blackened rifts Of the crags that keep him down. See, see! the red light shines! ’Tis the glare of his awful eyes! And the storm-wind shouts through the pines Of Alps and of Apennines, “Enceladus, arise!”

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, On board of the Cumberland, sloop of war; And at times from the fortress across the bay The alarum of drums swept past, Or a bugle blast From the camp on the shore. Then far away to the south uprose A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship of our foe Was steadily steering its course To try the force Of our ribs of oak. Down upon us heavily runs, Silent and sullen, the floating fort; Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, And leaps the terrible death, With fiery breath, From each open port. We are not idle, but send her straight Defiance back in a full broadside! As hail rebounds from a roof of slate Rebounds our heavier hail From each iron scale Of the monster’s hide. “Strike your flag!” the rebel cries, In his arrogant old plantation strain. “Never!” our gallant Morris replies; “It is better to sink than to yield!” And the whole air pealed With the cheers of our men. Then, like a kraken huge and black, She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp! Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, With a sudden shudder of death, And the cannon’s breath For her dying gasp. Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Still floated our flag at the mainmast head. Lord, how beautiful was thy day! Every waft of the air Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead. Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas! Ye are at peace in the troubled stream, Ho! brave land! with hearts like these, Thy flag, that is rent in twain, Shall be one again, And without a seam!

Labour with what zeal we will, Something still remains undone, Something uncompleted still Waits the rising of the sun. By the bedside, on the stair, At the threshold, near the gates, With its menace or its prayer, Like a mendicant it waits; Waits, and will not go away; Waits, and will not be gainsaid By the cares of yesterday Each to-day is heavier made; Till at length the burden seems Greater than our strength can bear; Heavy as the weight of dreams, Pressing on us everywhere. And we stand from day to day, Like the dwarfs of times gone by, Who, as Northern legends say, On their shoulders held the sky.

O little feet! that such long years Must wander on through hopes and fears, Must ache and bleed beneath your load; I, nearer to the Wayside Inn Where toil shall cease and rest begin, Am weary, thinking of your road! O little hands! that, weak or strong, Have still to serve or rule so long, Have still so long to give or ask; I, who so much with book and pen Have toiled among my fellow-men, Am weary, thinking of your task. O little hearts! that throb and beat With such impatient, feverish heat, Such limitless and strong desires; Mine that so long has glowed and burned, With passions into ashes turned, Now covers and conceals its fires. O little souls! as pure and white And crystalline as rays of light Direct from heaven, their source divine; Refracted through the mist of years, How red my setting sun appears, How lurid looks this soul of mine!

Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow. Even as our cloudy fancies take Suddenly shape in some divine expression, Even as the troubled heart doth make In the white countenance confession, The troubled sky reveals The grief it feels. This is the poem of the Air, Slowly in silent syllables recorded; This is the secret of despair, Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, Now whispered and revealed To wood and field.

No sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaks The silence of the summer day, As by the loveliest of all lakes I while the idle hours away. I pace the leafy colonnade, Where level branches of the plane Above me weave a roof of shade Impervious to the sun and rain. At times a sudden rush of air Flutters the lazy leaves o’erhead, And gleams of sunlight toss and flare Like torches down the path I tread. By Somariva’s garden gate I make the marble stairs my seat; And hear the water, as I wait, Lapping the steps beneath my feet. The undulation sinks and swells Along the stony parapets; And far away the floating bells Tinkle upon the fisher’s nets. Silent and slow, by tower and town, The freighted barges come and go; Their pendent shadow gliding down, By town and tower submerged below. The hills sweep upward from the shore, With villas scattered one by one Upon their wooded spurs, and lower Bellaggio blazing in the sun. And dimly seen, a tangled mass Of walls and woods, of light and shade, Stands beck’ning up the Stelvio pass Varenna with its wide cascade. I ask myself, Is this a dream? Will it all vanish into air? Is there a land of such supreme And perfect beauty anywhere? Sweet vision! Do not fade away; Linger until my heart shall take Into itself the summer day And all the beauty of the lake. Linger until upon my brain Is stamped an image of the scene; Then fade into the air again, And be as if thou hadst not been.

Garlands upon his grave, And flowers upon his hearse; And to the tender heart and brave, The tribute of this verse. His was the troubled life, The conflict and the pain; The griefs, the bitterness of strife, The honour without stain. Like Winkelried, he took Into his manly breast The sheaf of hostile spears, and broke A path for the oppressed; Then from the fatal field, Upon a nation’s heart, Borne like a warrior on his shield!— So should the brave depart. Death takes us by surprise, And stays our hurrying feet; The great design unfinished lies, Our lives are incomplete. But in the dark unknown, Perfect their circles seem, Even as a bridge’s arch of stone Is rounded in the stream. Alike are life and death When life in death survives, And the uninterrupted breath Inspires a thousand lives. Were a star quenched on high, For ages would its light, Still travelling downward from the sky, Shine on our mortal sight. So when a great man dies, For years beyond our ken, The light he leaves behind him lies Upon the paths of men.

Beautiful valley, through whose verdant meads Unheard the Garigliano glides along,— The Liris, nurse of rushes and of reeds, The river taciturn of classic song! The Land of Labour and the Land of Rest, Where mediæval towns are white on all The hillsides, and where every mountain crest Is an Etrurian or a Roman wall! There is Alagna, there Pope Boniface Was dragged with contumely from his throne; Sciarra Colonna, was that day’s disgrace The Pontiff’s only, or in part thine own? There is Ceprano, where a renegade Was each Apulian as great Dante saith, When Manfred, by his men-at-arms betrayed, Spurred on to Benevento and to death. There is Aquinum, the old Volscian town, Where Juvenal was born, whose lurid light Still hovers o’er his birthplace, like the crown Of splendour over cities seen at night. Doubled the splendour is, that in its streets The angelic Doctor as a schoolboy played, And dreamed perhaps the dreams that he repeats In ponderous folios for scholastics made. And there, uplifted like a passing cloud, That pauses on a mountain summit high, Monte Cassino’s convent rears its proud And venerable walls against the sky. Well I remember how on foot I climbed The stony pathway leading to its gate: Above, the convent bells for vespers chimed; Below, the darkening town grew desolate. Well I remember the low arch and dark, The court-yard with its well, the terrace wide, From which, far down, diminished to a park, The valley veiled in mist was dim descried. The day was dying, and with feeble hands Caressed the mountain-tops; the vales between Darkened; the river in the meadow-lands Sheathed itself as a sword and was not seen. The silence of the place was like a sleep, So full of rest it seemed; each passing tread Was a reverberation from the deep Recesses of the ages that are dead. For, more than thirteen centuries ago, Benedict, fleeing from the gates of Rome, A youth disgusted with its vice and woe, Sought in these mountain solitudes a home. He founded here his Convent and his Rule Of prayer and work, and counted work as prayer. His pen became a clarion, and his school Flamed like a beacon in the midnight air. What though Boccaccio, in his reckless way Mocking the lazy brotherhood, deplores The illuminated manuscripts that lay Torn and neglected on the dusty floors? Boccaccio was a novelist, a child Of fancy and of fiction at the best; This the urbane librarian said and smiled, Incredulous as at some idle jest. Upon such themes as these with one young friar I sat conversing late into the night, Till in its cavernous chimney the wood fire Had burnt its heart out like an anchorite. And then translated, in my convent cell, Myself yet not myself in dreams I lay; And, as a monk who hears the matin bell, Started from sleep; already it was day. From the high window I beheld the scene On which Saint Benedict so oft had gazed; The mountains and the valley in the sheen Of the bright sun, and stood as one amazed. Grey mists were rolling, rising, vanishing; The woodlands glistened with their jewelled crowns. Far off the mellow bells began to ring For matins in the half-awakened towns. The conflict of the Present and the Past, The ideal and the actual in our life, As on a field of battle held me fast, Where this world and the next world were at strife. For, as the valley from its sleep awoke, I saw the iron horses of the steam Toss to the morning air their plumes of smoke, And woke as one awaketh from a dream.

Sweet the memory is to me Of the land beyond the sea, Where the waves and mountains meet; Where amid her mulberry-trees Sits Amalfi in the heat, Bathing ever her white feet In the tideless, summer seas. In the middle of the town, From its fountains in the hills, Tumbling through the narrow gorge, The Canneto rushes down, Turns the great wheels of the mills, Lifts the hammers of the forge. ’Tis a stairway, not a street, That ascends the deep ravine, Where the torrent leaps between Rocky walls that almost meet. Toiling up from stair to stair Peasant girls their burdens bear; Sunburnt daughters of the soil, Stately figures tall and straight; What inexorable fate Dooms them to this life of toil? Lord of vineyards and of lands, Far above the convent stands, On its terraced walk aloof Leans a monk with folded hands, Placid, satisfied, serene, Looking down upon the scene Over wall and red-tiled roof; Wondering unto what good end All this toil and traffic tend, And why all men cannot be Free from care, and free from pain, And the sordid love of gain, And as indolent as he. Where are now the freighted barks From the marts of east and west? Where the knights in iron sarks Journeying to the Holy Land, Glove of steel upon the hand, Cross of crimson on the breast? Where the pomp of camp and court? Where the pilgrims with their prayers? Where the merchants with their wares, And their gallant brigantines Sailing safely into port, Chased by corsair Algerines? Vanished like a fleet of cloud, Like a passing trumpet-blast, Are those splendours of the past, And the commerce and the crowd! Fathoms deep beneath the seas Lie the ancient wharves and quays, Swallowed by the engulfing waves; Silent streets, and vacant halls, Ruined roofs and towers and walls; Hidden from all mortal eyes Deep the sunken city lies: Even cities have their graves! This is an enchanted land! Round the headlands far away Sweeps the blue Salernian bay With its sickle of white sand; Farther still and farthermost On the dim discovered coast Pæstum with its ruins lies, And its roses all in bloom Seem to tinge the fatal skies Of that lonely land of doom. On his terrace, high in air, Nothing doth the good monk care For such worldly themes as these. From the garden just below Little puffs of perfume blow, And a sound is in his ears Of the murmur of the bees In the shining chestnut-trees; Nothing else he heeds or hears. All the landscape seems to swoon In the happy afternoon; Slowly o’er his senses creep The encroaching waves of sleep And he sinks as sank the town, Unresisting, fathoms down Into caverns cool and deep! Walled about with drifts of snow, Hearing the fierce north wind blow, Seeing all the landscape white, And the river cased in ice, Comes this memory of delight, Comes this vision unto me Of a long-lost Paradise In the land beyond the sea.

Simon Danz has come home again, From cruising about with his buccaneers; He has singed the beard of the King of Spain, And carried away the Dean of Jaen And sold him in Algiers. In his house by the Maese, with its roof of tiles And weathercocks flying aloft in air, There are silver tankards of antique styles, Plunder of convent and castle, and piles Of carpets rich and rare. In his tulip-garden there by the town, Overlooking the sluggish stream, With his Moorish cap and dressing-gown The old sea-captain, hale and brown, Walks in a waking dream. A smile in his grey mustachio lurks Whenever he thinks of the King of Spain And the listed tulips look like Turks, And the silent gardener as he works Is changed to the Dean of Jaen. The windmills on the outermost Verge of the landscape in the haze, To him are towers on the Spanish coast, With whiskered sentinels at their post, Though this is the river Maese. But when the winter rains begin, He sits and smokes by the blazing brands, And old seafaring men come in, Goat-bearded, grey, and with double chin, And rings upon their hands. They sit there in the shadow and shine Of the flickering fire of the winter night; Figures in colour and design Like those by Rembrandt of the Rhine, Half darkness and half light. And they talk of their ventures lost or won, And their talk is ever and ever the same, While they drink the red wine of Tarragon, From the cellars of some Spanish Don, Or convent set on flame. Restless at times, with heavy strides He paces his parlour to and fro; He is like a ship that at anchor rides, And swings with the rising and falling tides And tugs at her anchor-tow. Voices mysterious far and near, Sound of the wind and sound of the sea, Are calling and whispering in his ear, “Simon Danz! Why stayest thou here? Come forth and follow me!” So he thinks he shall take to the sea again For one more cruise with his buccaneers, To singe the beard of the King of Spain, And capture another Dean of Jaen And sell him in Algiers.

Up soared the lark into the air, A shaft of song, a wingèd prayer, As if a soul, released from pain, Were flying back to heaven again. St. Francis heard; it was to him An emblem of the Seraphim; The upward motion of the fire, The light, the heat, the heart’s desire. Around Assisi’s convent gate The birds, God’s poor who cannot wait, From moor and mere and darksome wood Came flocking for their dole of food. “O brother birds,” St. Francis said, “Ye come to me and ask for bread, But not with bread alone to-day Shall ye be fed and sent away. “Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds, With manna of celestial words; Not mine, though mine they seem to be, Not mine, though they be spoken through me. “O, doubly are ye bound to praise The great Creator in your lays; He giveth you your plumes of down, Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown. “He giveth you your wings to fly And breathe a purer air on high, And careth for you everywhere, Who for yourselves so little care!” With flutter of swift wings and songs Together rose the feathered throngs, And singing scattered far apart; Deep peace was in St. Francis’ heart. He knew not if the brotherhood His homily had understood; He only knew that to one ear The meaning of his words was clear.

The ceaseless rain is falling fast, And yonder gilded vane, Immoveable for three days past, Points to the misty main. It drives me in upon myself, And to the fireside gleams, To pleasant books that crowd my shelf, And still more pleasant dreams. I read whatever bards have sung Of lands beyond the sea, And the bright days when I was young Come thronging back to me. I fancy I can hear again The Alpine torrent’s roar, The mule-bells on the hills of Spain, The sea at Elsinore. I see the convent’s gleaming wall Rise from its groves of pine, And towers of old cathedrals tall, And castles by the Rhine. I journey on by park and spire, Beneath centennial trees, Through fields with poppies all on fire, And gleams of distant seas. I fear no more the dust and heat, No more I feel fatigue, While journeying with another’s feet, O’er many a lengthening league. Let others traverse sea and land, And toil through various climes, I turn the world round with my hand, Reading these poet’s rhymes. From them I learn whatever lies Beneath each changing zone, And see, when looking with their eyes, Better than with mine own.

Warm and still is the summer night, As here by the river’s brink I wander; White overhead are the stars, and white The glimmering lamps on the hill-side yonder. Silent are all the sounds of day; Nothing I hear but the chirp of crickets, And the cry of the herons winging their way O’er the poet’s⁠[57] house in the Elmwood thickets. Call to him, herons, as slowly you pass To your roosts in the haunts of the exiled thrushes, Sing him the song of the green morass, And the tides that water the reeds and rushes. Sing him the mystical Song of the Hern, And the secret that baffles our utmost seeking; For only a sound of lament we discern, And cannot interpret the words you are speaking. Sing of the air, and the wild delight Of wings that uplift and winds that uphold you, The joy of freedom, the rapture of flight Through the drift of the floating mists that infold you; Of the landscape lying so far below, With its towns and rivers and desert places; And the splendour of light above, and the glow Of the limitless, blue, ethereal spaces. Ask him if songs of the Troubadours, Or of Minnesingers in old black-letter, Sound in his ears more sweet than yours, And if yours are not sweeter and wilder and better. Sing to him, say to him, here at his gate, Where the boughs of the stately elms are meeting, Some one hath lingered to meditate, And send him unseen this friendly greeting; That many another hath done the same, Though not by a sound was the silence broken; The surest pledge of a deathless name Is the silent homage of thoughts unspoken.

Once more, once more, Inarimé, I see thy purple hills!—once more I hear the billows of the bay Wash the white pebbles on thy shore. High o’er the sea-surge and the sands, Like a great galleon wrecked and cast Ashore by storms, thy castle stands, A mouldering landmark of the Past. Upon its terrace-walk I see A phantom gliding to and fro; It is Colonna,—it is she Who lived and loved so long ago, Pescara’s beautiful young wife, The type of perfect womanhood, Whose life was love, the life of life, That time and change and death withstood. For death, that breaks the marriage band In others, only closer pressed The wedding ring upon her hand, And closer locked and barred her breast. She knew the lifelong martyrdom, The weariness, the endless pain Of waiting for some one to come Who never more would come again. The shadows of the chestnut-trees, The odour of the orange blooms, The song of birds, and, more than these, The silence of deserted rooms; The respiration of the sea, The soft caresses of the air, All things in nature seemed to be But ministers of her despair; Till the o’erburdened heart, so long Imprisoned in itself, found vent And voice in one impassioned song Of inconsolable lament. Then as the sun, though hidden from sight, Transmutes to gold the leaden mist, Her life was interfused with light, From realms that, though unseen, exist. Inarimé! Inarimé! Thy castle on the crags above In dust shall crumble and decay, But not the memory of her love.

Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest; Home-keeping hearts are happiest, For those that wander they know not where Are full of trouble and full of care; To stay at home is best. Weary and homesick and distressed, They wander east, they wander west, And are baffled and beaten and blown about By the winds of the wilderness of doubt; To stay at home is best. Then stay at home, my heart, and rest; The bird is safest in its nest; O’er all that flutter their wings and fly A hawk is hovering in the sky; To stay at home is best.

A fleet with flags arrayed Sailed from the port of Brest, And the Admiral’s ship displayed The signal—“Steer south-west.” For this Admiral D’Anville Had sworn by cross and crown To ravage with fire and steel Our helpless Boston town. There were rumours in the street, In the houses there was fear Of the coming of the fleet, And the danger hovering near; And while from mouth to mouth Spread the tidings of dismay, I stood in the Old South, Saying humbly, “Let us pray! “O Lord! we would not advise; But if in thy Providence A tempest should arise, To drive the French fleet hence, And scatter it far and wide, Or sink it in the sea, We should be satisfied, And thine the glory be.” This was the prayer I made, For my soul was all on flame, And even as I prayed The answering tempest came. It came with a mighty power, Shaking the windows and walls, And tolling the bell in the tower, As it tolls at funerals. The lightning suddenly Unsheathed its flaming sword, And I cried, “Stand still, and see The salvation of the Lord!” The heavens were black with cloud, The sea was white with hail, And ever more fierce and loud Blew the October gale. The fleet it overtook, And the broad sails in the van, Like the tents of Cushan shook, Or the curtains of Midian. Down on the reeling decks Crashed the o’erwhelming seas; Ah, never were there wrecks So pitiful as these! Like a potter’s vessel broke The great ships of the line; They were carried away as a smoke, Or sank like lead in the brine. O Lord! before thy path They vanished and ceased to be, When thou didst walk in wrath, With thine horses through the sea.

How much of my young heart, O Spain, Went out to thee in days of yore! What dreams romantic filled my brain, And summoned back to life again The Paladins of Charlemagne, The Cid Campeador! And shapes more shadowy than these, In the dim twilight half revealed: Phœnician galleys on the seas, The Roman camps like hives of bees, The Goth uplifting from his knees Pelayo on his shield. It was these memories perchance, From annals of remotest eld, That lent the colours of romance To every trivial circumstance, And changed the form and countenance Of all that I beheld. Old towns, whose history lies hid In monkish chronicle or rhyme,— Burgos, the birthplace of the Cid, Zamora and Valladolid, Toledo, built and walled amid The wars of Wamba’s time; The long straight line of the highway, The distant town that seems so near, The peasants in the fields, that stay Their toil to cross themselves and pray, When from the belfry at mid-day The Angelus they hear; The crosses in the mountain pass, Mules gay with tassels, the loud din Of muleteers, the tethered ass That crops the dusty wayside grass, And cavaliers with spurs of brass Alighting at the inn; White hamlets hidden in fields of wheat, White cities slumbering by the sea, White sunshine flooding square and street, Dark mountain-ranges, at whose feet The river-beds are dry with heat, All was a dream to me. Yet something sombre and severe O’er the enchanted landscape reigned; A terror in the atmosphere As if King Philip listened near, Or Torquemada, the austere, His ghostly sway maintained. The softer Andalusian skies Dispelled the sadness and the gloom; There Cadiz by the sea-side lies, And Seville’s orange-orchards rise, Making the land a paradise Of beauty and of bloom. There Córdova is hidden among The palm, the olive, and the vine; Gem of the South, by poets sung, And in whose Mosque Almanzor hung As lamps the bells that once had rung At Compostella’s shrine. But over all the rest supreme, The star of stars, the cynosure, The artist’s and the poet’s theme, The young man’s vision, the old man’s dream,— Granada by its winding stream, The city of the Moor! And there the Alhambra still recalls Aladdin’s palace of delight: Allah il Allah! through its halls Whispers the fountain as it falls; The Darro darts beneath its walls, The hills with snow are white. Ah yes, the hills are white with snow, And cold with blasts that bite and freeze; But in the happy vale below The orange and pomegranate grow, And wafts of air toss to and fro The blossoming almond-trees. The Vega cleft by the Xenil, The fascination and allure Of the sweet landscape chain the will. The traveller lingers on the hill, His parted lips are breathing still The last sigh of the Moor. How like a ruin overgrown With flowers that hide the rents of time, Stands now the Past that I have known; Castles in Spain, not built of stone, But of white summer cloud, and blown Into this little mist of rhyme!

Dost thou see on the rampart’s height That wreath of mist, in the light Of the midnight moon? O, hist! It is not a wreath of mist; It is the Czar, the White Czar, Batyushka! Gosudar!⁠[58] He has heard, among the dead, The artillery roll o’erhead; The drums and the tramp of feet Of his soldiery in the street; He is awake! the White Czar, Batyushka! Gosudar! He has heard in the grave the cries Of his people: “Awake! arise!” He has rent the gold brocade Whereof his shroud was made; He is risen! the White Czar, Batyushka! Gosudar! From the Volga and the Don He has led his armies on, Over river and morass, Over desert and mountain pass; The Czar, the Orthodox Czar, Batyushka! Gosudar! He looks from the mountain-chain Toward the seas, that cleave in twain The continents; his hand Points southward o’er the land Of Roumele! O Czar, Batyushka! Gosudar! And the words break from his lips: “I am the builder of ships, And my ships shall sail these seas To the Pillars of Hercules! I say it; the White Czar, Batyushka! Gosudar! “The Bosphorus shall be free; It shall make room for me; And the gates of its water-streets Be unbarred before my fleets. I say it; the White Czar, Batyushka! Gosudar! “And the Christian shall no more Be crushed, as heretofore, Beneath thine iron rule, O Sultan of Istamboul! I swear it! I the Czar, Batyushka! Gosudar!”

Mounted on Kyrat strong and fleet, His chestnut steed with four white feet, Roushan Beg, called Kurroglou, Son of the road and bandit chief, Seeking refuge and relief, Up the mountain pathway flew. Such was Kyrat’s wondrous speed, Never yet could any steed Reach the dust-cloud in his course. More than maiden, more than wife, More than gold, and next to life Roushan the Robber loved his horse. In the land that lies beyond Erzeroum and Trebizond, Garden-girt his fortress stood; Plundered khan, or caravan Journeying north from Koordistan, Gave him wealth and wine and food. Seven hundred and fourscore Men at arms his livery wore, Did his bidding night and day. Now, through regions all unknown, He was wandering, lost, alone, Seeking without guide his way. Suddenly the pathway ends, Sheer the precipice descends, Loud the torrent roars unseen; Thirty feet from side to side Yawns the chasm; on air must ride He who crosses this ravine. Following close in his pursuit, At the precipice’s foot, Reyhan the Arab, of Orfah, Halted with his hundred men, Shouting upward from the glen, “La il Allah-Allah-la!” Gently Roushan Beg caressed Kyrat’s forehead, neck, and breast; Kissed him upon both his eyes; Sang to him in his wild way, As upon the topmost spray Sings a bird before it flies. “O my Kyrat, O my steed, Round and slender as a reed, Carry me this peril through! Satin housings shall be thine, Shoes of gold, O Kyrat mine, O thou soul of Kurroglou! “Soft thy skin as silken skein, Soft as woman’s hair thy mane, Tender are thine eyes and true; All thine hoofs like ivory shine, Polished bright; O, life of mine, Leap, and rescue Kurroglou!” Kyrat, then, the strong and fleet, Drew together his four white feet, Paused a moment on the verge, Measured with his eye the space, And into the air’s embrace Leaped as leaps the ocean surge. As the ocean surge o’er silt and sand Bears a swimmer safe to land, Kyrat safe his rider bore; Rattling down the deep abyss Fragments of the precipice Rolled like pebbles on a shore. Roushan’s tasselled cap of red Trembled not upon his head, Careless sat he and upright; Neither hand nor bridle shook, Nor his head he turned to look, As he galloped out of sight. Flash of harness in the air, Seen a moment like the glare Of a sword drawn from its sheath; Thus the phantom horseman passed, And the shadow that he cast Leaped the cataract underneath. Reyhan the Arab held his breath While this vision of life and death Passed above him. “Allahu!” Cried he. “In all Koordistan Lives there not so brave a man As this Robber Kurroglou!”

One day, Haroun Al Raschid read A book wherein the poet said:— “Where are the kings, and where the rest Of those who once the world possessed? “They’re gone with all their pomp and show, They’re gone the way that thou shalt go. “O thou who choosest for thy share The world, and what the world calls fair, “Take all that it can give or lend, But know that death is at the end! Haroun Al Raschid bowed his head; Tears fell upon the page he read.

Three Kings came riding from far away, Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar; Three Wise Men out of the East were they, And they travelled by night and they slept by day, For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star. The star was so beautiful, large, and clear, That all the other stars of the sky Became a white mist in the atmosphere, And by this they knew that the coming was near Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy. Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows, Three caskets of gold with golden keys; Their robes were of crimson silk with rows Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows, Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees. And so the Three Kings rode into the West, Through the dusk of night over hills and dells, And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast, And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest, With the people they met at the wayside wells. “Of the child that is born,” said Baltasar, “Good people, I pray you, tell us the news; For we in the East have seen his star, And have ridden fast, and have ridden far, To find and worship the King of the Jews.” And the people answered, “You ask in vain; We know of no king but Herod the Great!” They thought the Wise Men were men insane, As they spurred their horses across the plain, Like riders in haste who cannot wait. And when they came to Jerusalem, Herod the Great, who had heard this thing, Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them; And said, “Go down unto Bethlehem, And bring me tidings of this new king.” So they rode away; and the star stood still, The only one in the grey of morn; Yes, it stopped, it stood still of its own free will, Right over Bethlehem on the hill, The city of David where Christ was born. And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard, Through the silent street, till their horses turned And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard; But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred, And only a light in the stable burned. And cradled there in the scented hay, In the air made sweet by the breath of kine The little child in the manger lay, The Child that would be King one day Of a kingdom not human but divine. His mother, Mary of Nazareth, Sat watching beside his place of rest, Watching the even flow of his breath, For the joy of life and the terror of death Were mingled together in her breast. They laid their offerings at his feet: The gold was their tribute to a King, The frankincense, with its odour sweet, Was for the Priest, the Paraclete, The myrrh for the body’s burying. And the mother wondered and bowed her head, And sat as still as a statue of stone; Her heart was troubled yet comforted, Remembering what the Angel had said Of an endless reign and of David’s throne. Then the Kings rode out of the city gate, With a clatter of hoofs in proud array; But they went not back to Herod the Great, For they knew his malice and feared his hate, And returned to their homes by another way.

Viswamitra the magician, By his spells and incantations, Up to Indra’s realms elysian Raised Trisanku, king of nations. India and the Gods offended Hurled him downward, and descending In the air he hung suspended, With these equal powers contending. Thus by aspirations lifted, By misgivings downward driven. Human hearts are tossed and drifted Midway between earth and heaven.

When Mazáran, the magician, Journeyed westward through Cathay, Nothing heard he but the praises Of Badoura on his way. But the lessening rumour ended When he came to Khaledan; There the folks were talking only Of Prince Camaralzaman. So it happens with the poets, Every province hath its own; Camaralzaman is famous Where Badoura is unknown.

In that desolate land and lone, Where the Big Horn and Yellowstone Roar down their mountain path, By their fires the Sioux chiefs Muttered their woes and griefs, And the menace of their wrath. “Revenge!” cried Rain-in-the-Face, “Revenge upon all the race Of the White Chief with yellow hair!” And the mountains dark and high From their crags re-echoed the cry Of his anger and despair. In the meadow, spreading wide By woodland and river-side The Indian village stood; All was silent as a dream, Save the rushing of the stream And the blue-jay in the wood. In his war-paint and his beads, Like a bison among the reeds, In ambush the Sitting Bull Lay with three thousand braves Crouched in the clefts and caves, Savage, unmerciful! Into the fatal snare The White Chief with yellow hair And his three hundred men Dashed headlong, sword in hand; But of that gallant band Not one returned again. The sudden darkness of death Overwhelmed them, like the breath And smoke of a furnace fire; By the river’s bank, and between The rocks of the ravine They lay in their bloody attire. But the foeman fled in the night, And Rain-in-the-Face, in his flight Uplifted high in air As a ghastly trophy, bore The brave heart that beat no more, Of the White Chief with yellow hair. Whose was the right and the wrong? Sing it, O funeral song, With a voice that is full of tears, And say that our broken faith, Wrought all this ruin and scathe, In the Year of a Hundred Years!

O lovely river of Yvette! O darling river! like a bride, Some dimpled, bashful, fair Lisette, Thou goest to wed the Orge’s tide. Maincourt, and lordly Dampierre, See and salute thee on thy way, And, with a blessing and a prayer, Ring the sweet bells of St. Forget. The valley of Chevreuse in vain Would hold thee in its fond embrace; Thou glidest from its arms again And hurriest on with swifter pace. Thou wilt not stay; with restless feet Pursuing still thine onward flight, Thou goest as one in haste to meet Her sole desire, her heart’s delight. O lovely river of Yvette! O darling stream! on balanced wings The wood-birds sang the chansonnette That here an unknown poet sings.

On St. Bavon’s tower, commanding Half of Flanders, his domain, Charles the Emperor once was standing, While beneath him on the landing Stood Duke Alva and his train. Like a print in books of fables, Or a model made for show, With its pointed roofs and gables, Dormer windows, scrolls and labels, Lay the city far below. Through its squares and streets and alleys Poured the populace of Ghent; As a routed army rallies, Or as rivers run through valleys, Hurrying to their homes they went. “Nest of Lutheran misbelievers!” Cried Duke Alva as he gazed; “Haunt of traitors and deceivers, Stronghold of insurgent weavers, Let it to the ground be razed!” On the Emperor’s cap the feather Nods, as laughing he replies: “How many skins of Spanish leather, Think you, would, if stitched together, Make a glove of such a size?”

On the green little isle of Inchkenneth Who is it that walks by the shore, So gay with his Highland blue bonnet, So brave with his targe and claymore? His form is the form of a giant, But his face wears an aspect of pain; Can this be the Laird of Inchkenneth? Can this be Sir Alan McLean? Ah, no! It is only the Rambler, The Idler, who lives in Bolt Court, And who says, were he Laird of Inchkenneth, He would wall himself round with a fort.