POEMS OF TRAGEDY.
IPHIGENEIA AND AGAMEMNON.
Iphigeneia, when she heard her doom At Aulis, and when all beside the king Had gone away, took his right hand, and said: "O father! I am young and very happy. I do not think the pious Calchas heard Distinctly what the goddess spake; old age Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who knew My voice so well, sometimes misunderstood, While I was resting on her knee both arms, And hitting it to make her mind my words, And looking in her face, and she in mine, Might not he, also, hear one word amiss, Spoken from so far off, even from Olympus?" The father placed his cheek upon her head, And tears dropt down it; but the king of men Replied not. Then the maiden spake once more: "O father! sayest thou nothing? Hearest thou not Me, whom thou ever hast, until this hour, Listened to fondly, and awakened me To hear my voice amid the voice of birds, When it was inarticulate as theirs, And the down deadened it within the nest?" He moved her gently from him, silent still; And this, and this alone, brought tears from her, Although she saw fate nearer. Then with sighs: "I thought to have laid down my hair before Benignant Artemis, and not dimmed Her polished altar with my virgin blood; I thought to have selected the white flowers To please the nymphs, and to have asked of each By name, and with no sorrowful regret, Whether, since both my parents willed the change, I might at Hymen's feet bend my clipt brow; And (after these who mind us girls the most) Adore our own Athene, that she would Regard me mildly with her azure eyes,— But, father, to see you no more, and see Your love, O father! go ere I am gone!" Gently he moved her off, and drew her back, Bending his lofty head far over hers; And the dark depths of nature heaved and burst. He turned away,—not far, but silent still. She now first shuddered; for in him, so nigh, So long a silence seemed the approach of death, And like it. Once again she raised her voice: "O father! if the ships are now detained, And all your vows move not the gods above, When the knife strikes me there will be one prayer The less to them; and purer can there be Any, or more fervent, than the daughter's prayer For her dear father's safety and success?" A groan that shook him shook not his resolve. An aged man now entered, and without One word stepped slowly on, and took the wrist Of the pale maiden. She looked up, and saw The fillet of the priest and calm, cold eyes. Then turned she where her parent stood, and cried: "O father! grieve no more; the ships can sail."
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.
THE SACRIFICE OF POLYXENA. FROM "HECUBA."
[It had been determined by the victorious Greeks to sacrifice Polyxena, the daughter of Priam, King of Ilium, and his wife Hecuba, on the tomb of the slain Achilleus. Odysseus, sent by the Greeks to fetch the maiden, turned a deaf ear to the entreaties of the mother, and Polyxena herself addresses the Greek:]
"I see thee, how beneath thy robe, O King, Thy hand is hidden, thy face turned from mine, Lest I should touch thee by the beard and pray: Fear not: thou hast escaped the god of prayers For my part. I will rise and follow thee, Driven by strong need; yea, and not loth to die. Lo! if I should not seek death, I were found A cowardly, life-loving, selfish soul! For why should I live? Was my sire not King Of all broad Phrygia? Thus my life began; Then I was nurtured on fair bloom of hope To be the bride of kings; no small the suit, I ween, of lovers seeking me: thus I Was once—ah, woe is me! of Idan dames Mistress and queen, 'mid maidens like a star Conspicuous, peer of gods, except for death; And now I am a slave: this name alone Makes me in love with death—so strange it is."
[Later in the drama follows the account of the heroic death of Polyxena, described to the unhappy Hecuba by the herald Talthybius.]
"The whole vast concourse of the Achaian host Stood round the tomb to see your daughter die. Achilleus' son, taking her by the hand, Placed her upon the mound, and I stayed near; And youths, the flower of Greece, a chosen few, With hands to check thy heifer, should she bound, Attended. From a cup of carven gold, Raised full of wine, Archilleus' son poured forth Libation to his sire, and bade me sound Silence throughout the whole Achaian host. I, standing there, cried in the midst these words:— 'Silence, Achaians! let the host be still! Hush, hold your voices!' Breathless stayed the crowd; But he:—'O son of Peleus, father mine, Take these libations pleasant to thy soul, Draughts that allure the dead: come, drink the black Pure maiden's blood wherewith the host and I Sue thee: be kindly to us; loose our prows, And let our barks go free; give safe return Homeward from Troy to all, and happy voyage,' Such words he spake, and the crowd prayed assent. Then from the scabbard, by its golden hilt, He drew the sword, and to the chosen youths Signalled that they should bring the maid; but she, Knowing her hour was come, spake thus, and said: 'O men of Argos, who have sacked my town, Lo, of free will I die! Let no man touch My body: boldly will I stretch my throat. Nay, but I pray you set me free, then slay; That free I thus may perish: 'mong the dead, Being a queen, I blush to be called slave.' The people shouted, and King Agamemnon Bade the youths loose the maid, and set her free; She, when she heard the order of the chiefs, Seizing her mantle, from the shoulder down To the soft centre of her snowy waist Tore it, and showed her breasts and bosom fair As in a statue. Bending then with knee On earth, she spake a speech most piteous:— 'See you this breast, O youth? If breast you will, Strike it; take heart: or if beneath my neck, Lo! here my throat is ready for your sword!' He, willing not, yet willing,—pity-stirred In sorrow for the maiden,—with his blade Severed the channels of her breath: blood flowed; And she, though dying, still had thought to fall In seemly wise, hiding what eyes should see not. But when she breathed her life out from the blow, Then was the Argive host in divers way Of service parted; for some, bringing leaves, Strewed them upon the corpse; some piled a pyre, Dragging pine trunks and boughs; and he who bore none, Heard from the bearers many a bitter word:— 'Standest thou, villain? hast thou then no robe, No funeral honors for the maid to bring? Wilt thou not go and get for her who died Most nobly, bravest-souled, some gift?' Thus they Spake of thy child in death:—O thou most blessed Of women in thy daughter, most undone!"
From the Greek of EURIPIDES. Translation of JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.
PARRHASIUS.
There stood an unsold captive in the mart, A gray-haired and majestical old man, Chained to a pillar. It was almost night, And the last seller from the place had gone, And not a sound was heard but of a dog Crunching beneath the stall a refuse bone, Or the dull echo from the pavement rung, As the faint captive changed his weary feet. He had stood there since morning, and had borne From every eye in Athens the cold gaze Of curious scorn. The Jew had taunted him For an Olynthian slave. The buyer came And roughly struck his palm upon his breast, And touched his unhealed wounds, and with a sneer Passed on; and when, with weariness o'erspent, He bowed his head in a forgetful sleep, The inhuman soldier smote him, and, with threats Of torture to his children, summoned back The ebbing blood into his pallid face.
'T was evening, and the half-descended sun Tipped with a golden fire the many domes Of Athens, and a yellow atmosphere Lay rich and dusky in the shaded street Through which the captive gazed. He had borne up With a stout heart that long and weary day, Haughtily patient of his many wrongs, But now he was alone, and from his nerves
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.
From an engraving of the portrait by C. L. Elliott.
The needless strength departed, and he leaned Prone on his massy chain, and let his thoughts Throng on him as they would. Unmarked of him Parrhasius at the nearest pillar stood, Gazing upon his grief. The Athenian's cheek Flushed as he measured with a painter's eye The moving picture. The abandoned limbs, Stained with the oozing blood, were laced with veins Swollen to purple fulness; the gray hair, Thin and disordered, hung about his eyes; And as a thought of wilder bitterness Rose in his memory, his lips grew white, And the fast workings of his bloodless face Told what a tooth of fire was at his heart.
The golden light into the painter's room Streamed richly, and the hidden colors stole From the dark pictures radiantly forth, And in the soft and dewy atmosphere Like forms and landscapes magical they lay. The walls were hung with armor, and about In the dim corners stood the sculptured forms Of Cytheris, and Dian, and stern Jove, And from the casement soberly away Fell the grotesque long shadows, full and true, And like a veil of filmy mellowness, The lint-specks floated in the twilight air. Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay, Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus— The vulture at his vitals, and the links Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh; And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim, Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows forth With its far reaching fancy, and with form And color clad them, his fine, earnest eye Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip Were like the winged god's breathing from his flight.
"Bring me the captive now! My hand feels skilful, and the shadows lift From my waked spirit airily and swift, And I could paint the bow Upon the bended heavens—around me play Colors of such divinity to-day.
"Ha! bind him on his back! Look—as Prometheus in my picture here! Quick—or he faints!—stand with the cordial near! Now—bend him to the rack! Press down the poisoned links into his flesh! And tear agape that healing wound afresh!
"So—let him writhe! How long Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now! What a fine agony works upon his brow! Ha! gray-haired, and so strong! How fearfully he stifles that short moan! Gods! if I could but paint a dying groan!
"'Pity' thee! So I do! I pity the dumb victim at the altar— But does the robed priest for his pity falter? I'd rack thee though I knew A thousand lives were perishing in thine— What were ten thousand to a fame like mine?
"'Hereafter!' Ay—hereafter! A whip to keep a coward to his track! What gave Death ever from his kingdom back To check the sceptic's laughter? Come from the grave to-morrow with that story, And I may take some softer path to glory.
"No, no, old man! we die Even as the flowers, and we shall breathe away Our life upon the chance wind, even as they! Strain well thy fainting eye— For when that bloodshot quivering is o'er, The light of heaven will never reach thee more.
"Yet there's a deathless name! A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn, And like a steadfast planet mount and burn; And though its crown of flame Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone, By all the fiery stars! I'd bind it on!—
"Ay—though it bid me rifle My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst— Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first— Though it should bid me stifle The yearning in my throat for my sweet child, And taunt its mother till my brain went wild—
"All—I would do it all— Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot, Thrust foully into earth to be forgot! Oh heaven!—but I appall Your heart, old man! forgive—ha! on your lives Let him not faint!—rack him till he revives!
"Vain—vain—give o'er! His eye Glazes apace. He does not feel you now— Stand back! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow! Gods! if he do not die But for one moment—one—till I eclipse Conception with the scorn of those calm lips!
"Shivering! Hark! he mutters Brokenly now—that was a difficult breath— Another? Wilt thou never come, oh Death! Look! how his temple flutters! Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head! He shudders—gasps—Jove help him!—so—he's dead."
How like a mounting devil in the heart Rules the unreigned ambition! Let it once But play the monarch, and its haughty brow Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought And unthrones peace forever. Putting on The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns The heart to ashes, and with not a spring Left in the bosom for the spirit's lip, We look upon our splendor and forget The thirst of which we perish! Yet hath life Many a falser idol. There are hopes Promising well; and love-touched dreams for some; And passions, many a wild one; and fair schemes For gold and pleasure—yet will only this Balk not the soul—Ambition, only, gives, Even of bitterness, a beaker full! Friendship is but a slow-awaking dream, Troubled at best; Love is a lamp unseen, Burning to waste, or, if its light is found, Nursed for an idle hour, then idly broken; Gain is a grovelling care, and Folly tires, And Quiet is a hunger never fed; And from Love's very bosom, and from Gain, Or Folly, or a Friend, or from Repose— From all but keen Ambition—will the soul Snatch the first moment of forgetfulness To wander like a restless child away. Oh, if there were not better hopes than these— Were there no palm beyond a feverish fame— If the proud wealth flung back upon the heart Must canker in its coffers—if the links Falsehood hath broken will unite no more— If the deep yearning love, that hath not found Its like in the cold world, must waste in tears— If truth and fervor and devotedness, Finding no worthy altar, must return And die of their own fulness—if beyond The grave there is no heaven in whose wide air The spirit may find room, and in the love Of whose bright habitants the lavish heart May spend itself—what thrice-mocked fools are we!
LUCIUS JUNIUS BRUTUS OVER THE BODY OF LUCRETIA. FROM "BRUTUS."
Would you know why I summoned you together? Ask ye what brings me here? Behold this dagger, Clotted with gore! Behold that frozen corse! See where the lost Lucretia sleeps in death! She was the mark and model of the time, The mould in which each female face was formed, The very shrine and sacristy of virtue! Fairer than ever was a form created By youthful fancy when the blood strays wild, And never-resting thought is all on fire! The worthiest of the worthy! Not the nymph Who met old Numa in his hallowed walks, And whispered in his ear her strains divine, Can I conceive beyond her;—the young choir Of vestal virgins bent to her. 'T is wonderful Amid the darnel, hemlock, and base weeds, Which now spring rife from the luxurious compost Spread o'er the realm, how this sweet lily rose,— How from the shade of those ill-neighboring plants Her father sheltered her, that not a leaf Was blighted, but, arrayed in purest grace, She bloomed unsullied beauty. Such perfections Might have called back the torpid breast of age To long-forgotten rapture; such a mind Might have abashed the boldest libertine And turned desire to reverential love And holiest affection! O my countrymen! You all can witness when that she went forth It was a holiday in Rome; old age Forgot its crutch, labor its task,—all ran, And mothers, turning to their daughters, cried, "There, there's Lucretia!" Now look ye where she lies! That beauteous flower, that innocent sweet rose, Torn up by ruthless violence,—gone! gone! gone! Say, would you seek instruction? would ye ask What ye should do? Ask ye yon conscious walls, Which saw his poisoned brother,— Ask yon deserted street, where Tullia drove O'er her dead father's corse, 't will cry, Revenge! Ask yonder senate-house, whose stones are purple With human blood, and it will cry, Revenge! Go to the tomb where lies his murdered wife, And the poor queen, who loved him as her son, Their unappeased ghosts will shriek, Revenge! The temples of the gods, the all-viewing heavens, The gods themselves, shall justify the cry, And swell the general sound, Revenge! Revenge! And we will be revenged, my countrymen! Brutus shall lead you on; Brutus, a name Which will, when you're revenged, be dearer to him Than all the noblest titles earth can boast. Brutus your king!—No, fellow-citizens! If mad ambition in this guilty frame Had strung one kingly fibre, yea, but one,— By all the gods, this dagger which I hold Should rip it out, though it intwined my heart. Now take the body up. Bear it before us To Tarquin's palace; there we'll light our torches, And in the blazing conflagration rear A pile, for these chaste relics, that shall send Her soul amongst the stars. On! Brutus leads you!
JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.
THE ROMAN FATHER. FROM "VIRGINIA"
Straightway Virginius led the maid A little space aside, To where the reeking shambles stood, Piled up with horn and hide; Close to yon low dark archway, Where, in a crimson flood, Leaps down to the great sewer The gurgling stream of blood.
Hard by, a flesher on a block Had laid his whittle down: Virginius caught the whittle up, And hid it in his gown. And then his eyes grew very dim, And his throat began to swell, And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, "Farewell, sweet child! Farewell!
"O, how I loved my darling! Though stern I sometimes be, To thee, thou know'st, I was not so,— Who could be so to thee? And how my darling loved me! How glad she was to hear My footstep on the threshold When I came back last year!
"And how she danced with pleasure To see my civic crown, And took my sword, and hung it up, And brought me forth my gown! Now, all those things are over,— Yes, all thy pretty ways, Thy needlework, thy prattle, Thy snatches of old lays;
"And none will grieve when I go forth, Or smile when I return, Or watch beside the old man's bed, Or weep upon his urn. The house that was the happiest Within the Roman walls, The house that envied not the wealth Of Capua's marble halls,
"Now, for the brightness of thy smile, Must have eternal gloom, And for the music of thy voice, The silence of the tomb. The time is come! See how he points His eager hand this way! See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, Like a kite's upon the prey!
"With all his wit, he little deems That, spurned, betrayed, bereft, Thy father hath, in his despair, One fearful refuge left. He little deems that in this hand I clutch what still can save Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, The portion of the slave;
"Yea, and from nameless evil, That passes taunt and blow,— Foul outrage which thou knowest not, Which thou shalt never know. Then clasp me round the neck once more, And give me one more kiss; And now, mine own dear little girl, There is no way but this."
With that he lifted high the steel, And smote her in the side, And in her blood she sank to earth, And with one sob she died. Then, for a little moment, All people held their breath; And through the crowded forum Was stillness as of death;
And in another moment Brake forth, from one and all, A cry as if the Volscians Were coming o'er the wall. Some with averted faces Shrieking fled home amain; Some ran to call a leech; and some Ran to lift up the slain.
Some felt her lips and little wrist, If life might there be found; And some tore up their garments fast, And strove to stanch the wound. In vain they ran, and felt, and stanched; For never truer blow That good right arm had dealt in fight Against a Volscian foe.
When Appius Claudius saw that deed, He shuddered and sank down, And hid his face some little space With the corner of his gown; Till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes, Virginius tottered nigh, And stood before the judgment-seat, And held the knife on high.
"O dwellers in the nether gloom, Avengers of the slain, By this dear blood I cry to you Do right between us twain; And even as Appius Claudius Hath dealt by me and mine, Deal you by Appius Claudius, And all the Claudian line!"
So spake the slayer of his child, And turned and went his way; But first he cast one haggard glance To where the body lay, And writhed, and groaned a fearful groan, And then, with-steadfast feet, Strode right across the market-place Unto the Sacred Street.
Then up sprang Appius Claudius: "Stop him; alive or dead! Ten thousand pounds of copper To the man who brings his head." He looked upon his clients; But none would work his will. He looked upon his lictors; But they trembled, and stood still.
And as Virginius through the press His way in silence cleft, Ever the mighty multitude Fell back to right and left. And he hath passed in safety Onto his woful home, And there ta'en horse to tell the camp What deeds are done in Rome.
THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY.
MARK ANTONY, OVER THE BODY OF CÆSAR. FROM "JULIUS CÆSAR," ACT III. SC. 2.
Antony.—O mighty Cæsar! dost thou lie so low? Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, Shrunk to this little measure?—Fare thee well.—
(To the people.)
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interrèd with their bones; So let it be with Cæsar. The noble Brutus Hath told you Cæsar was ambitious: If it were so, it was a grievous fault; And grievously hath Cæsar answered it. Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest, (For Brutus is an honorable man; So are they all, all honorable men,) Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me: But Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honorable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome, Whose ransom did the general coffers fill: Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious? When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept: Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honorable man. You all did see that on the Lupercal I thrice presented him a kingly crown, Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And, sure, he is an honorable man. I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, But here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once,—not without cause! What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him? O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason!—Bear with me; My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar, And I must pause till it come back to me.
————
But yesterday, the word of Cæsar might Have stood against the world! now lies he there And none so poor to do him reverence. O masters! if I were disposed to stir Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, Who, you all know, are honorable men: I will not do them wrong; I rather choose To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you, Than I will wrong such honorable men. But here 's a parchment, with the seal of Cæsar,— I found it in his closet,—'tis his will. Let but the commons hear this testament, (Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read,) And they would go and kiss dead Cæsar's wounds, And dip their napkins in his sacred blood: Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, And, dying, mention it within their wills, Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy, Unto their issue.
4 Citizen.—We'll hear the will: read it, Mark Antony.
Citizens.—The will, the will! we will hear Cæsar's will.
Antony.—Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it; It is not meet you know how Cæsar loved you. You are not wood, you are not stones, but men; And, being men, hearing the will of Cæsar, It will inflame you, it will make you mad: 'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs, For if you should, O, what would come of it!
4 Citizen.—Read the will; we'll hear it, Antony; You shall read us the will,—Cæsar's will.
Antony.—Will you be patient? Will you stay awhile? I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it. I fear I wrong the honorable men Whose daggers have stabbed Cæsar; I do fear it.
4 Citizen.—They were traitors: honorable men!
Citizens.—The will! the testament!
2 Citizen.—They were villains, murderers: the will! read the will!
Antony.—You will compel me, then, to read the will! Then make a ring about the corse of Cæsar, And let me show you him that made the will. Shall I descend? and will you give me leave?
Citizens.—Come down.
Antony.—Nay, press not so upon me; stand far off.
Citizens.—Stand back; room; bear back.
Antony.—If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle: I remember The first time ever Cæsar put it on; 'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent; That day he overcame the Nervii:— Look, in this place ran Cassius' dagger through: See what a rent the envious Casca made: Through this the well-belovèd Brutus stabbed; And, as he plucked his cursed steel away, Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it, As rushing out of doors, to be resolved If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no; For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel: Judge, O you gods, how dearly Cæsar loved him! This was the most unkindest cut of all; For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms, Quite vanquished him: then burst his mighty heart; And, in his mantle muffling up his face, Even at the base of Pompey's statua, Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell. O, what a fall was there, my countrymen! Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, Whilst bloody treason flourished over us. O, now you weep; and I perceive you feel The dint of pity: these are gracious drops. Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold Our Cæsar's vesture wounded? Look you here, Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors.
————
Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of mutiny. They that have done this deed are honorable;— What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, That made them do it;—they are wise and honorable, And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts; I am no orator, as Brutus is; But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man, That love my friend; and that they know full well That gave me public leave to speak of him: For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men's blood: I only speak right on; I tell you that which you yourselves do know; Show you sweet Cæsar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths, And bid them speak for me: but were I Brutus, And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue In every wound of Cæsar, that should move The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.
All.—We'll mutiny.
1 Citizen.—We'll burn the house of Brutus.
3 Citizen.—Away, then! come, seek the conspirators.
Antony.—Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me speak.
All.—Peace, ho! Hear Antony, most noble Antony.
Antony.—Why, friends, you go to do you know not what. Wherein hath Cæsar thus deserved your loves? Alas, you know not!—I must tell you, then. You have forgot the will I told you of.
All.—Most true;—the will!—let's stay and hear the will.
Antony.—Here is the will, and under Cæsar's seal:— To every Roman citizen he gives, To every several man, seventy-five drachmas.
2 Citizen.—Most noble Cæsar!—we'll revenge his death.
3 Citizen.—O royal Cæsar!
Antony.—Hear me with patience.
Citizens.—Peace, ho!
Antony.—Moreover, he hath left you all his walks, His private arbors, and new-planted orchards On this side Tiber; he hath left them you, And to your heirs forever,—common pleasures, To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves. Here was a Cæsar! when comes such another?
1 Citizen.—Never, never!—Come away, away! We 'll burn his body in the holy place, And with the brands fire the traitors' houses. Take up the body...... [Exeunt Citizens, with the body.]
Antony.—Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot, Take thou what course thou wilt.
SHAKESPEARE.
THE SACK OF THE CITY.
Thy will, O King, is done! Lighting but to consume, The roar of the fierce flames drowned even the shouts and shrieks; Reddening each roof, like some day-dawn of bloody doom, Seemed they in joyous flight to dance above their wrecks.
Slaughter his thousand giant arms hath tossed on high, Fell fathers, husbands, wives, beneath his streaming steel; Prostrate the palaces huge tombs of fire lie, While gathering overhead the vultures scream and wheel.
Died the pale mothers;—and the virgins, from their arms, O Caliph, fiercely torn, bewailed their young years' blight; With stabs and kisses fouled, all their yet quivering charms At our fleet coursers' heels were dragged in mocking flight.
Lo, where the city lies mantled in pall of death! Lo, where thy mighty arm hath passed, all things must bend! As the priests prayed, the sword stopped their accursèd breath,— Vainly their sacred book for shield did they extend.
Some infants yet survived, and the unsated steel Still drinks the life-blood of each whelp of Christian hound. To kiss thy sandal's foot, O King, thy people kneel, With golden circlet to thy glorious ankle bound.
From the French of VICTOR-MARIE HUGO.
THE SLAYING OF SOHRAB. FROM "SOHRAB AND RUSTUM."
He spake; and Rustum answered not, but hurled His spear. Down from the shoulder, down it came— As on some partridge in the corn, a hawk, That long has towered in the airy clouds, Drops like a plummet. Sohrab saw it come, And sprang aside, quick as a flash. The spear Hissed, and went quivering down into the sand, Which it sent flying wide. Then Sohrab threw In turn, and full struck Rustum's shield. Sharp rang The iron plates, rang sharp, but turned the spear. And Rustum seized his club, which none but he Could wield—an unlapped trunk it was, and huge, Still rough; like those which men, in treeless plains, To build them boats, fish from the flooded rivers, Hyphasis or Hydaspes, when, high up By their dark springs, the wind in winter-time Has made in Himalayan forests wrack, And strewn the channels with torn boughs—so huge The club which Rustum lifted now, and struck One stroke; but again Sohrab sprang aside, Lithe as the glancing snake, and the club came Thundering to earth, and leapt from Rustum's hand. And Rustum followed his own blow, and fell To his knees, and with his fingers clutched the sand. And now might Sohrab have unsheathed his sword, And pierced the mighty Rustum while he lay Dizzy, and on his knees, and choked with sand; But he looked on, and smiled, nor bared his sword; But courteously drew back, and spoke, and said:— "Thou strik'st too hard; that club of thine will float Upon the summer floods, and not my bones. But rise, and be not wroth; not wroth am I. No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my soul. Thou sayest thou art not Rustum; be it so. Who art thou then, that canst so touch my soul? Boy as I am, I have seen battles too; Have waded foremost in their bloody waves, And heard their hollow roar of dying men; But never was my heart thus touched before. Are they from heaven, these softenings of the heart? O thou old warrior, let us yield to Heaven! Come, plant we here in earth our angry spears, And make a truce, and sit upon this sand, And pledge each other in red wine, like friends; And thou shalt talk to me of Rustum's deeds. There are enough foes in the Persian host Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel no pang; Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thou May'st fight: fight them, when they confront thy spear. But oh, let there be peace 'twixt thee and me!" He ceased. But while he spake Rustum had risen, And stood erect, trembling with rage. His club He left to lie, but had regained his spear, Whose fiery point now in his mailed right hand Blazed bright and baleful—like that autumn star, The baleful sign of fevers. Dust had soiled His stately crest, and dimmed his glittering arms. His breast heaved; his lips foamed; and twice his voice Was choked with rage. At last these words broke way:— "Girl! nimble with thy feet, not with thy hands! Curled minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words! Fight! Let me hear thy hateful voice no more! Thou art not in Afrasiab's gardens now With Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont to dance; But on the Oxus sands, and in the dance Of battle, and with me, who make no play Of war. I fight it out, and hand to hand. Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and wine! Remember all thy valor; try thy feints And cunning; all the pity I had is gone; Because thou hast shamed me before both the hosts, With thy light skipping tricks, and thy girl's wiles." He spoke; and Sohrab kindled at his taunts, And he too drew his sword. At once they rushed Together; as two eagles on one prey Come rushing down together from the clouds, One from the east, one from the west. Their shields Dashed with a clang together; and a din Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters Make often in the forest's heart at morn, Of hewing axes, crashing trees; such blows Rustum and Sohrab on each other hailed. And you would say that sun and stars took part In that unnatural conflict; for a cloud Grew suddenly in heaven, and darkened the sun Over the fighters' heads; and a wind rose Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain, And in a sandy whirlwind wrapped the pair. In gloom they twain were wrapped, and they alone; For both the on-looking hosts on either hand Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure, And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream. But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyes And laboring breath. First Rustum struck the shield Which Sohrab held stiff out. The steel-spiked spear Rent the tough plates, but failed to reach the skin: And Rustum plucked it back with angry groan. Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum's helm Nor clove its steel quite through; but all the crest He shore away; and that proud horse-hair plume, Never till now defiled, sunk to the dust; And Rustum bowed his head. But then the gloom Grew blacker; thunder rumbled in the air, And lightnings rent the cloud; and Ruksh, the horse, Who stood at hand, uttered a dreadful cry. No horse's cry was that, most like the roar Of some pained desert lion, who all day Has trailed the hunter's javelin in his side, And comes at night to die upon the sand. The two hosts heard the cry, and quaked for fear; And Oxus curdled as it crossed his stream. But Sohrab heard, and quailed not—but rushed on, And struck again; and again Rustum bowed His head. But this time all the blade, like glass, Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm, And in his hand the hilt remained alone. Then Rustum raised his head; his dreadful eyes Glared, and he shook on high his menacing spear, And shouted "Rustum!" Sohrab heard that shout, And shrank amazed; back he recoiled one step, And scanned with blinking eyes the advancing form; And then he stood bewildered; and he dropped His covering shield, and the spear pierced his side. He reeled, and staggering back, sunk to the ground. And then the gloom dispersed, and the wind fell, And the bright sun broke forth, and melted all The cloud; and the two armies saw the pair— Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet, And Sohrab wounded, on the bloody sand. Then with a bitter smile, Rustum began:— "Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to kill A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse, And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab's tent; Or else that the great Rustum would come down Himself to fight, and that thy wiles would move His heart to take a gift, and let thee go. And then all the Tartar host would praise Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame, To glad thy father in his weak old age. Fool! thou art slain, and by an unknown man! Dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be, Than to thy friends, and to thy father old." And with a fearless mien Sohrab replied:— "Unknown thou art; yet thy fierce vaunt is vain. Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful man! No! Rustum slays me, and this filial heart. For were I matched with ten such men as thou, And I were he who till to-day I was, They should be lying here, I standing there. But that belovèd name unnerved my arm— That name, and something, I confess, in thee, Which troubles all my heart, and made my shield Fall; and thy spear transfixed an unarmed foe. And now thou boastest, and insult'st my fate. But hear thou this, fierce man—tremble to hear! The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death! "My father, whom I seek through all the world, He shall avenge my death, and punish thee!"
————
So Rustum knew not his own loss; but stood Over his dying son, and knew him not. But with a cold, incredulous voice, he said:— "What prate is this of fathers and revenge? The mighty Rustum never had a son." And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied:— "Ah yes, he had! and that lost son am I. Surely the news will one day reach his ear— Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries long, Somewhere, I know not where, but far from here; And pierce him like a stab, and make him leap To arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee— Fierce man, bethink thee—for an only son! What will that grief, what will that vengeance be! Oh, could I live till I that grief had seen! Yet him I pity not so much, but her, My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwells With that old king, her father, who grows gray With age, and rules over the valiant Koords. Her most I pity, who no more will see Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp, With spoils and honor, when the war is done, But a dark rumor will be bruited up, From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear; And then will that defenceless woman learn That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more; But that in battle with a nameless foe, By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain."
————
And Rustum gazed on him with grief, and said: "O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might well have loved! Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men Have told thee false—thou art not Rustum's son. For Rustum had no son. One child he had— But one—a girl; who with her mother now Plies some light female task, nor dreams of us; Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor war." But Sohrab answered him in wrath; for now The anguish of the deep-fixed spear grew fierce, And he desired to draw forth the steel, And let the blood flow free, and so to die. But first he would convince his stubborn foe; And, rising sternly on one arm, he said: "Man, who art thou, who dost deny my words? Truth sits upon the lips of dying men; And falsehood, while I lived, was far from mine. I tell thee, pricked upon this arm I bear That seal which Rustum to my mother gave, That she might prick it on the babe she bore." He spoke: and all the blood left Rustum's cheeks; And his knees tottered; and he smote his hand Against his breast, his heavy mailèd hand, That the hard iron corselet clanked aloud; And to his heart he pressed the other hand, And in a hollow voice he spake, and said: "Sohrab, that were a proof which could not lie. If thou show this, then art thou Rustum's son." Then, with weak, hasty fingers, Sohrab loosed His belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm, And showed a sign in faint vermilion points Pricked. As a cunning workman, in Pekin, Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain vase, An emperor's gift; at early morn he paints, And all day long; and, when night comes, the lamp Lights up his studious forehead and thin hands: So delicately pricked the sign appeared On Sohrab's arm—the sign of Rustum's seal. It was that griffin, which of old reared Zal, Rustum's great father, whom they left to die, A helpless babe, among the mountain rocks, Him that kind creature found and reared and loved. Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign. And Sohrab bared that figure on his arm, And himself scanned it long with mournful eyes, And then he touched it with his hand and said: "How sayest thou? Is that sign the proper sign Of Rustum's son, or of some other man's?" He spoke: but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and stood Speechless; and then he uttered one sharp cry— "O, boy—thy father!"—and his voice choked there, And then a dark cloud passed before his eyes, And his head swam, and he sank down to earth. But Sohrab crawled to where he lay, and cast His arms about his neck, and kissed his lips. And with fond, faltering fingers stroked his cheeks, Trying to call him back to life. And life Came back to Rustum, and he oped his eyes, And they stood wide with horror; and he seized In both his hands the dust which lay around, And threw it on his head, and smirched his hair— His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering arms; And strong, convulsive groanings shook his breast, And his sobs choked him; and he clutched his sword To draw it, and for ever let life out. But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his hands; And with a soothing voice he spoke, and said: "Father, forbear! for I but meet to-day The doom that at my birth was written down In heaven, and thou art heaven's unconscious hand. Surely my heart cried out that it was thou, When first I saw thee; and thy heart spoke too, I know it. But fate trod those promptings down Under its iron heel; fate, fate engaged The strife, and hurled me on my father's spear. But let us speak no more of this—I find My father; let me feel that I have found. Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks, And wash them with thy tears, and say, 'My son!' Quick! quick! for numbered are my sands of life, And swift; for like the lightning to this field I came, and like the wind I go away— Sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind. But it was writ in heaven that this should be." So said he: and his voice released the heart Of Rustum, and his tears broke forth; he cast His arms round his son's neck, and wept aloud, And kissed him. And awe fell on both the hosts When they saw Rustum's grief; and Ruksh, the horse, With his head bowing to the ground, and mane Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woe, First to the one, then to the other moved His head, as if inquiring what their grief Might mean; and from his dark, compassionate eyes, The big, warm tears rolled down, and caked the sand. But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and said: "Ruksh, now thou grievest; but, O Ruksh, thy feet Should then have rotted on thy nimble joints, When first they bore thy master to this field." But Sohrab looked upon the horse, and said: "Is this then Ruksh? How often, in past days, My mother told me of thee, thou brave steed— My terrible father's terrible horse! and said That I should one day find thy lord and thee. Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane. O Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I; For thou hast gone where I shall never go, And snuffed the breezes of my father's home, And thou hast trod the sands of Seïstan, And seen the river of Helmund, and the lake Of Zirrah; and the aged Zal himself Has often stroked thy neck, and given thee food— Corn in a golden platter soaked with wine— And said—'O Ruksh! bear Rustum well!' But I Have never known my grandsire's furrowed face, Nor seen his lofty house in Seïstan, Nor slaked my thirst at the clear Helmund stream; But lodged among my father's foes, and seen Afrasiab's cities only, Samarcand, Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste, And the black Toorkmun tents; and only drunk The desert rivers, Moorghab and Tejend, Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep, The northern Sir; and this great Oxus stream— The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die." And, with a heavy groan, Rustum replied: "Oh that its waves were flowing over me! Oh that I saw its grains of yellow silt Roll tumbling in the current o'er my head!" And, with a grave, mild voice, Sohrab replied: "Desire not that, my father! Thou must live; For some are born to do great deeds, and live; As some are born to be obscured, and die. Do thou the deeds I die too young to do, And reap a second glory in thine age; Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine. But come! thou seest this great host of men Which follow me; I pray thee, slay not these! Let me entreat for them—what have they done? They followed me, my hope, my fame, my star. Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. But me thou must bear hence, not send with them, But carry me with thee to Seïstan, And place me on a bed, and mourn for me— Thou, and the snow-haired Zal, and all thy friends. And thou must lay me in that lovely earth, And heap a stately mound above my bones, And plant a far-seen pillar over all; That so the passing horseman on the waste May see my tomb a great way off, and say: Sohrab, the mighty Rustum's son, lies there, Whom his great father did in ignorance kill— And I be not forgotten in my grave." And, with a mournful voice, Rustum replied: "Fear not! as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son, So shall it be; for I will burn my tents, And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me, And carry thee away to Seïstan, And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee, With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends. And I will lay thee in that lovely earth, And heap a stately mound above thy bones, And plant a far-seen pillar over all; And men shall not forget thee in thy grave; And I will spare thy host—yea, let them go— Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. What should I do with slaying any more? For would that all whom I have ever slain Might be once more alive—my bitterest foes, And they who were called champions in their time, And through whose death I won that fame I have— And I were nothing but a common man, A poor, mean soldier, and without renown; So thou mightest live too, my son, my son! Or rather, would that I, even I myself, Might now be lying on this bloody sand, Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine. Not thou of mine; and I might die, not thou; And I, not thou, be borne to Seïstan; And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine; And say—O son, I weep thee not too sore, For willingly, I know, thou met'st thine end!— But now in blood and battles was my youth, And full of blood and battles is my age; And I shall never end this life of blood." Then at the point of death, Sohrab replied:— "A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful man! But thou shalt yet have peace; only not now, Not yet. But thou shalt have it on that day When thou shalt sail in a high-masted ship, Thou and the other peers of Kai-Khosroo, Returning home over the salt, blue sea, From laying thy dear master in his grave." And Rustum gazed on Sohrab's face, and said:— "Soon be that day, my son, and deep that sea! Till then, if fate so wills, let me endure." He spoke: and Sohrab smiled on him, and took The spear, and drew it from his side, and eased His wound's imperious anguish. But the blood Came welling from the open gash, and life Flowed with the stream; all down his cold white side The crimson torrent ran, dim now, and soiled— Like the soiled tissue of white violets Left, freshly gathered, on their native bank By romping children, whom their nurses call From the hot fields at noon. His head drooped low; His limbs grew slack; motionless, white, he lay— White, with eyes closed; only when heavy gasps, Deep, heavy gasps, quivering through all his frame, Convulsed him back to life, he opened them, And fixed them feebly on his father's face. Till now all strength was ebbed, and from his limbs Unwillingly the spirit fled away, Regretting the warm mansion which it left, And youth and bloom, and this delightful world. So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead. And the great Rustum drew his horseman's cloak Down o'er his face, and sate by his dead son. As those black granite pillars, once high-reared By Jemshid in Persepolis, to bear His house, now, mid their broken flights of steps, Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain-side— So in the sand lay Rustum by his son. And night came down over the solemn waste, And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair, And darkened all; and a cold fog, with night, Crept from the Oxus.
MATTHEW ARNOLD.
KHAMSIN.
Oh, the wind from the desert blew in!— Khamsin, The wind from the desert blew in! It blew from the heart of the fiery south, From the fervid sand and the hills of drouth, And it kissed the land with its scorching mouth; The wind from the desert blew in!
It blasted the buds on the almond bough, And shrivelled the fruit on the orange-tree; The wizened dervish breathed no vow, So weary and parched was he. The lean muezzin could not cry; The dogs ran mad, and bayed the sky; The hot sun shone like a copper disk, And prone in the shade of an obelisk The water-carrier sank with a sigh, For limp and dry was his water-skin; And the wind from the desert blew in.
The camel crouched by the crumbling wall, And oh the pitiful moan it made! The minarets, taper and slim and tall, Reeled and swam in the brazen light; And prayers went up by day and night, But thin and drawn were the lips that prayed. The river writhed in its slimy bed, Shrunk to a tortuous, turbid thread; The burnt earth cracked like a cloven rind; And still the wind, the ruthless wind, Khamsin, The wind from the desert blew in.
Into the cool of the mosque it crept, Where the poor sought rest at the Prophet's shrine; Its breath was fire to the jasmine vine; It fevered the brow of the maid who slept, And men grew haggard with revel of wine. The tiny fledglings died in the nest; The sick babe gasped at the mother's breast. Then a rumor rose and swelled and spread From a tremulous whisper, faint and vague, Till it burst in a terrible cry of dread, The plague! the plague! the plague!— Oh the wind, Khamsin, The scourge from the desert, blew in!
THE DIVER.
"Oh, where is the knight or the squire so bold, As to dive to the howling charybdis below?— I cast into the whirlpool a goblet of gold, And o'er it already the dark waters flow: Whoever to me may the goblet bring, Shall have for his guerdon that gift of his king."
He spoke, and the cup from the terrible steep, That rugged and hoary, hung over the verge Of the endless and measureless world of the deep, Swirled into the maelstrom that maddened the surge. "And where is the diver so stout to go— I ask ye again—to the deep below?"
And the knights and the squires that gathered around, Stood silent—and fixed on the ocean their eyes; They looked on the dismal and savage profound, And the peril chilled back every thought of the prize. And thrice spoke the monarch—"The cup to win, Is there never a wight who will venture in?"
And all as before heard in silence the king— Till a youth, with an aspect unfearing but gentle, 'Mid the tremulous squires, stept out from the ring, Unbuckling his girdle, and doffing his mantle; And the murmuring crowd, as they parted asunder, On the stately boy cast their looks of wonder.
"Hark! a shriek from the crowd rang aloft from the shore, And behold: he is whirled in the grasp of the main." —Schiller.— From a photogravure after drawing by A. Michaelis.
As he strode to the marge of the summit, and gave One glance on the gulf of that merciless main; Lo! the wave that for ever devours the wave, Casts roaringly up the charybdis again; And, as with the swell of the far thunder-boom, Rushes foamingly forth from the heart of the gloom.
And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars, As when fire is with water commixed and contending; And the spray of its wrath to the welkin up-soars, And flood upon flood hurries on, never ending. And it never will rest, nor from travail be free, Like a sea that is laboring the birth of a sea.
And at last there lay open the desolate realm! Through the breakers that whitened the waste of the swell, Dark—dark yawned a cleft in the midst of the whelm, The path to the heart of that fathomless hell. Round and round whirled the waves—deep and deeper still driven, Like a gorge thro' the mountainous main thunder-riven.
The youth gave his trust to his Maker! Before That path through the riven abyss closed again— Hark! a shriek from the crowd rang aloft from the shore, And, behold! he is whirled in the grasp of the main! And o'er him the breakers mysteriously rolled, And the giant-mouth closed on the swimmer so bold.
O'er the surface grim silence lay dark and profound, But the deep from below murmured hollow and fell; And the crowd, as it shuddered, lamented aloud— "Gallant youth—noble heart—fare-thee-well, fare-thee-well!" And still ever deepening that wail as of woe, More hollow the gulf sent its howl from below.
If thou should'st in those waters thy diadem fling, And cry, "Who may find it shall win it, and wear;" God's wot, though the prize were the crown of a king— A crown at such hazard were valued too dear. For never did lips of the living reveal, What the deeps that howl yonder in terror conceal.
Oh many a ship, to that breast grappled fast, Has gone down to the fearful and fathomless grave; Again crashed together, the keel and the mast, To be seen, tossed aloft in the glee of the wave.— Like the growth of a storm ever louder and clearer, Grows the roar of the gulf rising nearer and nearer.
And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars, As when fire is with water commixed and contending; And the spray of its wrath to the welkin up-soars, And flood upon flood hurries on, never ending, And, as with the swell of the far thunder-boom, Rushes roaringly forth from the heart of the gloom.
And lo! from the heart of that far-floating gloom, What gleams on the darkness so swanlike and white? Lo! an arm and a neck, glancing up from the tomb!— They battle—the Man with the Element's might. It is he—it is he!—In his left hand behold, As a sign—as a joy! shines the goblet of gold!
And he breathèd deep, and he breathèd long, And he greeted the heavenly delight of the day. They gaze on each other—they shout as they throng— "He lives—lo, the ocean has rendered its prey! And out of the grave where the Hell began, His valor has rescued the living man!"
And he comes with the crowd in their clamor and glee, And the goblet his daring has won from the water, He lifts to the king as he sinks on his knee; And the king from her maidens has beckoned his daughter, And he bade her the wine to his cup-bearer bring, And thus spake the Diver—"Long life to the king!
"Happy they whom the rose-hues of daylight rejoice, The air and the sky that to mortals are given! May the horror below never more find a voice— Nor Man stretch too far the wide mercy of Heaven! Never more—never more may he lift from the mirror, The Veil which is woven with Night and with Terror!
"Quick-brightening like lightning—it tore me along, Down, down, till the gush of a torrent at play In the rocks of its wilderness caught me—and strong As the wings of an eagle, it whirled me away. Vain, vain were my struggles—the circle had won me, Round and round in its dance the wild element spun me.
"And I called on my God, and my God heard my prayer, In the strength of my need, in the gasp of my breath— And showed me a crag that rose up from the lair, And I clung to it, trembling—and baffled the death. And, safe in the perils around me, behold On the spikes of the coral the goblet of gold!
"Below, at the foot of that precipice drear, Spread the gloomy, and purple, and pathless obscure! A silence of horror that slept on the ear, That the eye more appalled might the horror endure! Salamander—snake—dragon—vast reptiles that dwell In the deep—coiled about the grim jaws of their hell!
"Dark-crawled—glided dark the unspeakable swarms, Like masses unshapen, made life hideously; Here clung and here bristled the fashionless forms, Here the Hammer-fish darkened the dark of the sea, And with teeth grinning white, and a menacing motion, Went the terrible Shark—the hyena of Ocean.
"There I hung, and the awe gathered icily o'er me, So far from the earth where man's help there was none! The one Human Thing, with the Goblins before me— Alone—in a loneness so ghastly—ALONE! Fathom-deep from man's eye in the speechless profound, With the death of the main and the monsters around.
"Methought, as I gazed through the darkness, that now A hundred-limbed creature caught sight of its prey, And darted.—O God! from the far-flaming bough Of the coral, I swept on the horrible way; And it seized me, the wave with its wrath and its roar, It seized me to save—King, the danger is o'er!"
On the youth gazed the monarch, and marvelled—quoth he, "Bold Diver, the goblet I promised is thine, And this ring will I give, a fresh guerdon to thee, Never jewels more precious shone up from the mine; If thou'll bring me fresh tidings, and venture again, To say what lies hid in the innermost main!"
Then outspake the daughter in tender emotion, "Ah! father, my father, what more can there rest? Enough of this sport with the pitiless ocean— He has served thee as none would, thyself hast confest. If nothing can slake thy wild thirst of desire, Be your knights not, at least, put to shame by the squire!"
The king seized the goblet—he swung it on high, And whirling, it fell in the roar of the tide; "But bring back that goblet again to my eye, And I'll hold thee the dearest that rides by my side, And thine arms shall embrace as thy bride, I decree, The maiden whose pity now pleadeth for thee."
In his heart, as he listened, there leapt the wild joy— And the hope and the love through his eyes spoke in fire, On that bloom, on that blush, gazed, delighted, the boy; The maiden she faints at the feet of her sire! Here the guerdon divine; there the danger beneath; He resolves!—To the strife with the life and the death!
They hear the loud surges sweep back in their swell; Their coming the thunder-sound heralds along! Fond eyes yet are tracking the spot where he fell— They come, the wild waters, in tumult and throng, Rearing up to the cliff—roaring back as before; But no wave ever brought the lost youth to the shore.
From the German of JOHANN C. F. SCHILLER.
GOD'S JUDGMENT ON A WICKED BISHOP.
[Hatto, Archbishop of Mentz, in the year 914, barbarously murdered a number of poor people to prevent their consuming a portion of the food during that year of famine. He was afterwards devoured by rats in his tower on an island in the Rhine.—Old Legend.]
The summer and autumn had been so wet, That in winter the corn was growing yet: 'Twas a piteous sight to see all around The grain lie rotting on the ground.
Every day the starving poor Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door; For he had a plentiful last-year's store, And all the neighborhood could tell His granaries were furnished well.
At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day To quiet the poor without delay; He bade them to his great barn repair, And they should have food for the winter there.
Rejoiced the tidings good to hear, The poor folks flocked from far and near; The great barn was full as it could hold Of women and children, and young and old.
Then, when he saw it could hold no more, Bishop Hatto he made fast the door; And whilst for mercy on Christ they call, He set fire to the barn, and burnt them all.
"I' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he; "And the country is greatly obliged to me For ridding it, in these times forlorn, Of rats that only consume the corn."
So then to his palace returned he, And he sate down to supper merrily, And he slept that night like an innocent man; But Bishop Hatto never slept again.
In the morning, as he entered the hall, Where his picture hung against the wall, A sweat like death all over him came, For the rats had eaten it out of the frame.
As he looked, there came a man from his farm— He had a countenance white with alarm: "My lord, I opened your granaries this morn, And the rats had eaten all your corn."
Another came running presently, And he was pale as pale could be. "Fly! my lord bishop, fly!" quoth he, "Ten thousand rats are coming this way,— The Lord forgive you for yesterday!"
"I'll go to my tower in the Rhine," replied he; "'T is the safest place in Germany,— The walls are high, and the shores are steep, And the tide is strong, and the water deep."
Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away; And he crossed the Rhine without delay, And reached his tower, and barred with care All the windows, doors, and loop-holes there.
He laid him down and closed his eyes, But soon a scream made him arise; He started, and saw two eyes of flame On his pillow, from whence the screaming came.
He listened and looked,—it was only the cat; But the bishop he grew more fearful for that, For she sate screaming, mad with fear, At the army of rats that were drawing near.
For they have swum over the river so deep, And they have climbed the shores so steep, And now by thousands up they crawl To the holes and the windows in the wall.
Down on his knees the bishop fell, And faster and faster his beads did he tell, As louder and louder, drawing near, The saw of their teeth without he could hear.
And in at the windows, and in at the door, And through the walls, by thousands they pour; And down from the ceiling and up through the floor, From the right and the left, from behind and before, From within and without, from above and below,— And all at once to the bishop they go.
They have whetted their teeth against the stones, And now they pick the bishop's bones; They gnawed the flesh from every limb, For they were sent to do judgment on him!
ROBERT SOUTHEY.
COUNTESS LAURA.
It was a dreary day in Padua. The Countess Laura, for a single year Fernando's wife, upon her bridal bed, Like an uprooted lily on the snow, The withered outcast of a festival, Lay dead. She died of some uncertain ill, That struck her almost on her wedding day, And clung to her, and dragged her slowly down, Thinning her cheeks and pinching her full lips, Till in her chance, it seemed that with a year Full half a century was overpast. In vain had Paracelsus taxed his art, And feigned a knowledge of her malady; In vain had all the doctors, far and near, Gathered around the mystery of her bed, Draining her veins, her husband's treasury, And physic's jargon, in a fruitless quest For causes equal to the dread result. The Countess only smiled when they were gone, Hugged her fair body with her little hands, And turned upon her pillows wearily, As though she fain would sleep no common sleep, But the long, breathless slumber of the grave. She hinted nothing. Feeble as she was, The rack could not have wrung her secret out. The Bishop, when he shrived her, coming forth, Cried, in a voice of heavenly ecstasy, "O blessed soul! with nothing to confess Save virtues and good deeds, which she mistakes— So humble is she—for our human sins!" Praying for death, she tossed upon her bed Day after day; as might a shipwrecked bark That rocks upon one billow, and can make No onward motion towards her port of hope. At length, one morn, when those around her said, "Surely the Countess mends, so fresh a light Beams from her eyes and beautifies her face,"— One morn in spring, when every flower of earth Was opening to the sun, and breathing up Its votive incense, her impatient soul Opened itself, and so exhaled to heaven. When the Count heard it, he reeled back a pace; Then turned with anger on the messenger; Then craved his pardon, and wept out his heart Before the menial; tears, ah me! such tears As love sheds only, and love only once. Then he bethought him, "Shall this wonder die, And leave behind no shadow? not a trace Of all the glory that environed her, That mellow nimbus circling round my star?" So, with his sorrow glooming in his face, He paced along his gallery of art, And strode among the painters, where they stood, With Carlo, the Venetian, at their head, Studying the Masters by the dawning light Of his transcendent genius. Through the groups Of gayly vestured artists moved the Count, As some lone cloud of thick and leaden hue, Packed with the secret of a coming storm, Moves through the gold and crimson evening mists, Deadening their splendor. In a moment still Was Carlo's voice, and still the prattling crowd; And a great shadow overwhelmed them all, As their white faces and their anxious eyes Pursued Fernando in his moody walk. He paused, as one who balances a doubt, Weighing two courses, then burst out with this: "Ye all have seen the tidings in my face; Or has the dial ceased to register The workings of my heart? Then hear the bell, That almost cracks its frame in utterance; The Countess,—she is dead!" "Dead!" Carlo groaned. And if a bolt from middle heaven had struck His splendid features full upon the brow, He could not have appeared more scathed and blanched. "Dead!—dead!" He staggered to his easel-frame, And clung around it, buffeting the air With one wild arm, as though a drowning man Hung to a spar and fought against the waves. The Count resumed: "I came not here to grieve, Nor see my sorrow in another's eyes. Who'll paint the Countess, as she lies to-night In state within the chapel? Shall it be That earth must lose her wholly? that no hint Of her gold tresses, beaming eyes, and lips That talked in silence, and the eager soul That ever seemed outbreaking through her clay, And scattering glory round it,—shall all these Be dull corruption's heritage, and we, Poor beggars, have no legacy to show That love she bore us? That were shame to love, And shame to you, my masters." Carlo stalked Forth from his easel stiffly as a thing Moved by mechanic impulse. His thin lips, And sharpened nostrils, and wan, sunken cheeks, And the cold glimmer in his dusky eyes, Made him a ghastly sight. The throng drew back As though they let a spectre through. Then he, Fronting the Count, and speaking in a voice Sounding remote and hollow, made reply: "Count, I shall paint the Countess. 'T is my fate,— Not pleasure,—no, nor duty." But the Count, Astray in woe, but understood assent, Not the strange words that bore it; and he flung His arm round Carlo, drew him to his breast, And kissed his forehead. At which Carlo shrank; Perhaps 't was at the honor. Then the Count, A little reddening at his public state,— Unseemly to his near and recent loss,— Withdrew in haste between the downcast eyes That did him reverence as he rustled by. Night fell on Padua. In the chapel lay The Countess Laura at the altar's foot. Her coronet glittered on her pallid brows; A crimson pall, weighed down with golden work, Sown thick with pearls, and heaped with early flowers, Draped her still body almost to the chin; And over all a thousand candles flamed Against the winking jewels, or streamed down The marble aisle, and flashed along the guard Of men-at-arms that slowly wove their turns, Backward and forward, through the distant gloom. When Carlo entered, his unsteady feet Scarce bore him to the altar, and his head Drooped down so low that all his shining curls Poured on his breast, and veiled his countenance. Upon his easel a half-finished work, The secret labor of his studio, Said from the canvas, so that none might err, "I am the Countess Laura." Carlo kneeled, And gazed upon the picture; as if thus, Through those clear eyes, he saw the way to heaven. Then he arose; and as a swimmer comes Forth from the waves, he shook his locks aside, Emerging from his dream, and standing firm Upon a purpose with his sovereign will. He took his palette, murmuring, "Not yet!" Confidingly and softly to the corpse, And as the veriest drudge, who plies his art Against his fancy, he addressed himself With stolid resolution to his task, Turning his vision on his memory, And shutting out the present, till the dead, The gilded pall, the lights, the pacing guard, And all the meaning of that solemn scene Became as nothing, and creative Art Resolved the whole to chaos, and reformed The elements according to her law: So Carlo wrought, as though his eye and hand Were Heaven's unconscious instruments, and worked The settled purpose of Omnipotence. And it was wondrous how the red, the white, The ochre, and the umber, and the blue, From mottled blotches, hazy and opaque, Grew into rounded forms and sensuous lines; How just beneath the lucid skin the blood Glimmered with warmth; the scarlet lips apart Bloomed with the moisture of the dews of life; How the light glittered through and underneath The golden tresses, and the deep, soft eyes Became intelligent with conscious thought, And somewhat troubled underneath the arch Of eyebrows but a little too intense For perfect beauty; how the pose and poise Of the lithe figure on its tiny foot Suggested life just ceased from motion; so That any one might cry, in marvelling joy, "That creature lives,—has senses, mind, a soul To win God's love or dare hell's subtleties!" The artist paused. The ratifying "Good!" Trembled upon his lips. He saw no touch To give or soften. "It is done," he cried,— "My task, my duty! Nothing now on earth Can taunt me with a work left unfulfilled!" The lofty flame, which bore him up so long, Died in the ashes of humanity; And the mere man rocked to and fro again Upon the centre of his wavering heart. He put aside his palette, as if thus He stepped from sacred vestments, and assumed A mortal function in the common world. "Now for my rights!" he muttered, and approached The noble body. "O lily of the world! So withered, yet so lovely! what wast thou To those who came thus near thee—for I stood Without the pale of thy half-royal rank— When thou wast budding, and the streams of life Made eager struggles to maintain thy bloom, And gladdened heaven dropped down in gracious dews On its transplanted darling? Hear me now! I say this but in justice, not in pride, Not to insult thy high nobility, But that the poise of things in God's own sight May be adjusted; and hereafter I May urge a claim that all the powers of heaven Shall sanction, and with clarions blow abroad.— Laura you loved me! Look not so severe, With your cold brows, and deadly, close-drawn lips! You proved it, Countess, when you died for it,— Let it consume you in the wearing strife It fought with duty in your ravaged heart. I knew it ever since that summer day I painted Lilla, the pale beggar's child, At rest beside the fountain; when I felt— O Heaven!—the warmth and moisture of your breath Blow through my hair, as with your eager soul— Forgetting soul and body go as one— You leaned across my easel till our cheeks— Ah me! 't was not your purpose—touched, and clung! Well, grant 't was genius; and is genius naught? I ween it wears as proud a diadem— Here, in this very world—as that you wear. A king has held my palette, a grand-duke Has picked my brush up, and a pope has begged The favor of my presence in his Rome. I did not go; I put my fortune by. I need not ask you why: you knew too well. It was but natural, it was no way strange, That I should love you. Everything that saw, Or had its other senses, loved you, sweet, And I among them. Martyr, holy saint,— I see the halo curving round your head,— I loved you once; but now I worship you, For the great deed that held my love aloof, And killed you in the action! I absolve Your soul from any taint. For from the day Of that encounter by the fountain-side Until this moment, never turned on me Those tender eyes, unless they did a wrong To nature by the cold, defiant glare With which they chilled me. Never heard I word Of softness spoken by those gentle lips; Never received a bounty from that hand Which gave to all the world. I know the cause. You did your duty,—not for honor's sake, Nor to save sin, or suffering, or remorse, Or all the ghosts that haunt a woman's shame, But for the sake of that pure, loyal love Your husband bore you. Queen, by grace of God, I bow before the lustre of your throne! I kiss the edges of your garment-hem, And hold myself ennobled! Answer me,— If I had wronged you, you would answer me Out of the dusty porches of the tomb:— Is this a dream, a falsehood? or have I Spoken the very truth?" "The very truth!" A voice replied; and at his side he saw A form, half shadow and half substance, stand, Or, rather, rest; for on the solid earth It had no footing, more than some dense mist That waves o'er the surface of the ground It scarcely touches. With a reverent look The shadow's waste and wretched face was bent Above the picture; as though greater awe Subdued its awful being, and appalled, With memories of terrible delight And fearful wonder, its devouring gaze. "You make what God makes,—beauty," said the shape. "And might not this, this second Eve, console The emptiest heart? Will not this thing outlast The fairest creature fashioned in the flesh? Before that figure, Time, and Death himself, Stand baffled and disarmed. What would you ask More than God's power, from nothing to create?" The artist gazed upon the boding form, And answered: "Goblin, if you had a heart, That were an idle question. What to me Is my creative power, bereft of love? Or what to God would be that self-same power, If so bereaved?" "And yet the love, thus mourned, You calmly forfeited. For had you said To living Laura—in her burning ears— One half that you professed to Laura dead, She would have been your own. These contraries Sort not with my intelligence. But speak, Were Laura living, would the same stale play Of raging passion tearing out its heart Upon the rock of duty be performed?" "The same, O phantom, while the heart I bear Trembled, but turned not its magnetic faith From God's fixed centre." "If I wake for you This Laura,—give her all the bloom and glow Of that midsummer day you hold so dear,— The smile, the motion, the impulsive soul, The love of genius,—yea, the very love, The mortal, hungry, passionate, hot love, She bore you, flesh to flesh,—would you receive That gift, in all its glory, at my hands?" A smile of malice curled the tempter's lips, And glittered in the caverns of his eyes, Mocking the answer. Carlo paled and shook; A woful spasm went shuddering through his frame, Curdling his blood, and twisting his fair face With nameless torture. But he cried aloud, Out of the clouds of anguish, from the smoke Of very martyrdom, "O God, she is thine! Do with her at thy pleasure!" Something grand, And radiant as a sunbeam, touched the head. He bent in awful sorrow. "Mortal, see—" "Dare not! As Christ was sinless, I abjure These vile abominations! Shall she bear Life's burden twice, and life's temptations twice, While God is justice?" "Who has made you judge Of what you call God's good, and what you think God's evil? One to him, the source of both, The God of good and of permitted ill. Have you no dream of days that might have been, Had you and Laura filled another fate?— Some cottage on the sloping Apennines, Roses and lilies, and the rest all love? I tell you that this tranquil dream may be Filled to repletion. Speak, and in the shade Of my dark pinions I shall bear you hence, And land you where the mountain-goat himself Struggles for footing." He outspread his wings, And all the chapel darkened, as though hell Had swallowed up the tapers; and the air Grew thick, and, like a current sensible, Flowed round the person, with a wash and dash, As of the waters of a nether sea. Slowly and calmly through the dense obscure, Dove-like and gentle, rose the artist's voice: "I dare not bring her spirit to that shame! Know my full meaning,—I who neither fear Your mystic person nor your dreadful power. Nor shall I now invoke God's potent name For my deliverance from your toils. I stand Upon the founded structure of his law, Established from the first, and thence defy Your arts, reposing all my trust in that!" The darkness eddied off; and Carlo saw The figure gathering, as from outer space, Brightness on brightness; and his former shape Fell from him, like the ashes that fall off, And show a core of mellow fire within. Adown his wings there poured a lambent flood, That seemed as molten gold, which plashing fell Upon the floor, enringing him with flame; And o'er the tresses of his beaming head Arose a stream of many-colored light, Like that which crowns the morning. Carlo stood Steadfast, for all the splendor, reaching up The outstretched palms of his untainted soul Towards heaven for strength. A moment thus; then asked, With reverential wonder quivering through His sinking voice, "Who, spirit, and what, art thou?" "I am that blessing which men fly from,—Death." "Then take my hand, if so God orders it; For Laura waits me." "But, bethink thee, man, What the world loses in the loss of thee! What wondrous art will suffer with eclipse! What unwon glories are in store for thee! What fame, outreaching time and temporal shocks, Would shine upon the letters of thy name Graven in marble, or the brazen height Of columns wise with memories of thee!" "Take me! If I outlived the Patriarchs, I could but paint those features o'er and o'er: Lo! that is done." A smile of pity lit The seraph's features, as he looked to heaven, With deep inquiry in his tender eyes. The mandate came. He touched with downy wing The sufferer lightly on his aching heart; And gently, as the skylark settles down Upon the clustered treasures of her nest, So Carlo softly slid along the prop Of his tall easel, nestling at the foot As though he slumbered; and the morning broke In silver whiteness over Padua.
GEORGE HENRY BOKER.
OTHELLO'S REMORSE. FROM "OTHELLO," ACT V. SC. 2.
Behold, I have a weapon; A better never did itself sustain Upon a soldier's thigh: I have seen the day, That, with this little arm and this good sword, I have made my way through more impediments Than twenty times your stop:—but, O vain boast! Who can control his fate? 't is not so now.— Be not afraid, though you do see me weaponed; Here is my journey's end, here is my butt, And very sea-mark of my utmost sail. Do you go back dismayed? 't is a lost fear; Man but a rush against Othello's breast, And he retires:—where should Othello go?— Now, how dost thou look now? O ill-starred wench! Pale as thy smock! when we shall meet at compt, This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven, And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl? Even like thy chastity—O, cursèd slave!— Whip me, ye devils, From the possession of this heavenly sight! Blow me about in winds! roast me in sulphur! Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire!— O Desdemona! Desdemona! dead? O! O!
SHAKESPEARE.
THE TRIAL OF BEATRICE. FROM "THE CENCI," ACT V.
Scene II.—A Hall of Justice. Camillo, Judges, etc., are discovered seated; Marzio is led in.
First Judge.—Accused, do you persist in your denial? I ask you, are you innocent, or guilty? I demand who were the participators In your offence? Speak truth and the whole truth.
Marzio.—My God! I did not kill him; I know nothing; Olimpio sold the robe to me from which You would infer my guilt.
Second Judge.—Away with him!
First Judge.—Dare you, with lips yet white from the rack's kiss Speak false? Is it so soft a questioner, That you would bandy lovers' talk with it Till it wind out your life and soul? Away!
Marzio.—Spare me! O, spare! I will confess.
First Judge.—Then speak.
Marzio.—I strangled him in his sleep.
First Judge.—Who urged you to it?
Marzio.—His own son, Giacomo, and the young prelate Orsino sent me to Petrella; there The ladies Beatrice and Lucretia Tempted me with a thousand crowns, and I And my companion forthwith murdered him. Now let me die.
First Judge.—This sounds as bad as truth. Guards, there, Lead forth the prisoner!
Enter Lucretia, Beatrice, Giacomo, guarded.
Look upon this man; When did you see him last?
Beatrice.—We never saw him.
Marzio.—You know me too well, Lady Beatrice.
Beatrice.—I know thee! How? where? when?
Marzio.—You know 't was I Whom you did urge with menaces and bribes To kill your father. When the thing was done You clothed me in a robe of woven gold And bade me thrive: how I have thriven, you see. You, my Lord Giacomo, Lady Lucretia, You know that what I speak is true. (Beatrice advances towards him; he covers his face, and shrinks back.) O, dart The terrible resentment of those eyes On the dead earth! Turn them away from me! They wound: 't was torture forced the truth. My Lords, Having said this let me be led to death.
Beatrice.—Poor wretch, I pity thee: yet stay awhile.
Camillo.—Guards, lead him not away.
Beatrice.—Cardinal Camillo, You have a good repute for gentleness And wisdom: can it be that you sit here To countenance a wicked farce like this? When some obscure and trembling slave is dragged From sufferings which might shake the sternest heart And bade to answer, not as he believes, But as those may suspect or do desire Whose questions thence suggest their own reply: And that in peril of such hideous torments As merciful God spares even the damned. Speak now The thing you surely know, which is that you, If your fine frame were stretched upon that wheel, And you were told: "Confess that you did poison Your little nephew; that fair blue-eyed child Who was the lodestar of your life:"—and tho' All see, since his most swift and piteous death, That day and night, and heaven and earth, and time And all the things hoped for or done therein Are changed to you, thro' your exceeding grief, Yet you would say, "I confess anything:" And beg from your tormentors, like that slave, The refuge of dishonorable death. I pray thee, Cardinal, that thou assert My innocence.
Camillo (much moved).—What shall we think, my Lords? Shame on these tears! I thought the heart was frozen Which is their fountain. I would pledge my soul That she is guiltless.
Judge.—Yet she must be tortured.
Camillo.—I would as soon have tortured mine own nephew (If he now lived he would be just her age; His hair, too, was her color, and his eyes Like hers in shape, but blue and not so deep) As that most perfect image of God's love That ever came sorrowing upon the earth. She is as pure as speechless infancy!
Judge.—Well, be her purity on your head, my Lord, If you forbid the rack. His Holiness Enjoined us to pursue this monstrous crime By the severest forms of law; nay even To stretch a point against the criminals. The prisoners stand accused of parricide Upon such evidence as justifies Torture.
Beatrice.—What evidence? This man's?
Judge.—Even so.
Beatrice (to Marzio).—Come near. And who art thou thus chosen forth Out of the multitude of living men To kill the innocent?
Marzio.—I am Marzio, Thy father's vassal.
Beatrice.—Fix thine eyes on mine; Answer to what I ask. (Turning to the Judges.) I prithee mark His countenance: unlike bold calumny Which sometimes dares not speak the thing it looks, He dares not look the thing he speaks, but bends His gaze on the blind earth. (To Marzio.) What! wilt thou say That I did murder my own father?
Marzio.—Oh! Spare me! My brain swims round ... I cannot speak ... It was that horrid torture forced the truth. Take me away! Let her not look on me! I am a guilty miserable wretch; I have said all I know; now, let me die!
Beatrice.—My Lords, if by my nature I had been So stern, as to have planned the crime alleged, Which your suspicions dictate to this slave, And the rack makes him utter, do you think I should have left this two-edged instrument Of my misdeed; this man, this bloody knife With my own name engraven on the heft, Lying unsheathed amid a world of foes, For my own death? That with such horrible need For deepest silence, I should have neglected So trivial a precaution, as the making His tomb the keeper of a secret written On a thief's memory? What is his poor life? What are a thousand lives? A parricide Had trampled them like dust; and, see, he lives! (Turning to Marzio.) And thou ...
Marzio.—Oh, spare me! Speak to me no more! That stern yet piteous look, those solemn tones, Wound worse than torture.
(To the Judges.) I have told it all; For pity's sake lead me away to death.
Camillo.—Guards, lead him nearer the Lady Beatrice; He shrinks from her regard like autumn's leaf From the keen breath of the serenest north.
Beatrice.—O thou who tremblest on the giddy verge Of life and death, pause ere thou answerest me; So mayst thou answer God with less dismay: What evil have we done thee? I, alas! Have lived but on this earth a few sad years And so my lot was ordered, that a father First turned the moments of awakening life To drops, each poisoning youth's sweet hope; and then Stabbed with one blow my everlasting soul; And my untainted fame; and even that peace Which sleeps within the core of the heart's heart; But the wound was not mortal; so my hate Became the only worship I could lift To our great Father, who in pity and love, Armed thee, as thou dost say, to cut him off; And thus his wrong becomes my accusation; And art thou the accuser? If thou hopest Mercy in heaven, show justice upon earth: Worse than a bloody hand is a hard heart. If thou hast done murders, made thy life's path Over the trampled laws of God and man, Rush not before thy Judge, and say: "My maker, I have done this and more; for there was one Who was most pure and innocent on earth; And because she endured what never any Guilty or innocent endured before: Because her wrongs could not be told, not thought; Because thy hand at length did rescue her; I with my words killed her and all her kin." Think, I adjure you, what it is to slay The reverence living in the minds of men Towards our ancient house, and stainless fame! Think what it is to strangle infant pity, Cradled in the belief of guileless looks, Till it become a crime to suffer. Think What 't is to blot with infamy and blood All that which shows like innocence, and is, Hear me, great God! I swear, most innocent, So that the world lose all discrimination Between the sly, fierce, wild regard of guilt, And that which now compels thee to reply To what I ask: Am I, or am I not A parricide?
Marzio.—Thou art not!
Judge.—What is this?
Marzio.—I here declare those whom I did accuse Are innocent. 'T is I alone am guilty.
Judge.—Drag him away to torments; let them be Subtle and long drawn out, to tear the folds Of the heart's inmost cell. Unbind him not Till he confess.
Marzio.—Torture me as ye will: A keener pain has wrung a higher truth From my last breath. She is most innocent! Bloodhounds, not men, glut yourselves well with me; I will not give you that fine piece of nature To rend and ruin. (Exit Marzio, guarded.)
Camillo.—What say ye now, my Lords?
Judge.—Let tortures strain the truth till it be white As snow thrice sifted by the frozen wind.
Camillo.—Yet stained with blood.
Judge (to Beatrice). —Know you this paper, Lady?
Beatrice.—Entrap me not with questions. Who stands here As my accuser? Ha! wilt thou be he, Who art my judge? Accuser, witness, judge, What, all in one? Here is Orsino's name; Where is Orsino? Let his eye meet mine. What means this scrawl? Alas! ye know not what, And therefore on the chance that it may be Some evil, will ye kill us?
(Enter an Officer.)
Officer.—Marzio's dead.
Judge.—What did he say?
Officer.—Nothing. As soon as we Had bound him on the wheel, he smiled on us, As one who baffles a deep adversary; And holding his breath, died.
Judge.—There remains nothing But to apply the question to those prisoners, Who yet remain stubborn.
Camillo.—I overrule Further proceedings, and in the behalf Of these most innocent and noble persons Will use my interest with the Holy Father.
Judge.—Let the Pope's pleasure then be done. Meanwhile Conduct these culprits each to separate cells; And be the engines ready: for this night If the Pope's resolution be as grave, Pious, and just as once, I'll wring the truth Out of those nerves and sinews, groan by groan. (Exeunt.)
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
FRA GIACOMO.
Alas, Fra Giacomo, Too late!—but follow me; Hush! draw the curtain,—so!— She is dead, quite dead, you see. Poor little lady! she lies With the light gone out of her eyes, But her features still wear that soft Gray meditative expression, Which you must have noticed oft, And admired too, at confession. How saintly she looks, and how meek! Though this be the chamber of death, I fancy I feel her breath As I kiss her on the cheek. With that pensive religious face, She has gone to a holier place! And I hardly appreciated her,— Her praying, fasting, confessing, Poorly, I own, I mated her; I thought her too cold, and rated her For her endless image-caressing. Too saintly for me by far, As pure and as cold as a star, Not fashioned for kissing and pressing,— But made for a heavenly crown. Ay, father, let us go down,— But first, if you please, your blessing.
Wine? No? Come, come, you must! You'll bless it with your prayers, And quaff a cup, I trust, To the health of the saint up stairs? My heart is aching so! And I feel so weary and sad, Through the blow that I have had,— You'll sit, Fra Giacomo? My friend! (and a friend I rank you For the sake of that saint,)—nay, nay! Here's the wine,—as you love me, stay!— 'T is Montepulciano!—Thank you.
Heigh-ho! 'T is now six summers Since I won that angel and married her: I was rich, not old, and carried her Off in the face of all comers. So fresh, yet so brimming with soul! A tenderer morsel, I swear, Never made the dull black coal Of a monk's eye glitter and glare. Your pardon!—nay, keep your chair! I wander a little, but mean No offence to the gray gaberdine; Of the church, Fra Giacomo, I'm a faithful upholder, you know, But (humor me!) she was as sweet As the saints in your convent windows, So gentle, so meek, so discreet, She knew not what lust does or sin does. I'll confess, though, before we were one, I deemed her less saintly, and thought The blood in her veins had caught Some natural warmth from the sun. I was wrong,—I was blind as a bat,— Brute that I was, how I blundered! Though such a mistake as that Might have occurred as pat To ninety-nine men in a hundred. Yourself, for example? you've seen her? Spite her modest and pious demeanor, And the manners so nice and precise, Seemed there not color and light, Bright motion and appetite, That were scarcely consistent with ice? Externals implying, you see, Internals less saintly than human?— Pray speak, for between you and me You're not a bad judge of a woman! A jest,—but a jest!—Very true: 'T is hardly becoming to jest, And that saint up stairs at rest,— Her soul may be listening, too! I was always a brute of a fellow! Well may your visage turn yellow,— To think how I doubted and doubted, Suspected, grumbled at, flouted That golden-haired angel,—and solely Because she was zealous and holy! Noon and night and morn She devoted herself to piety; Not that she seemed to scorn Or dislike her husband's society; But the claims of her soul superseded All that I asked for or needed, And her thoughts were far away From the level of sinful clay, And she trembled if earthly matters Interfered with her aves and paters, Poor dove, she so fluttered in flying Above the dim vapors of hell— Bent on self-sanctifying— That she never thought of trying To save her husband as well. And while she was duly elected For place in the heavenly roll, I (brute that I was!) suspected Her manner of saving her soul. So, half for the fun of the thing, What did I (blasphemer!) but fling On my shoulders the gown of a monk— Whom I managed for that very day To get safely out of the way— And seat me, half sober, half drunk, With the cowl thrown over my face, In the father confessor's place. Eheu! benedicite! In her orthodox sweet simplicity, With that pensive gray expression, She sighfully knelt at confession, While I bit my lips till they bled, And dug my nails in my hand, And heard with averted head What I'd guessed and could understand. Each word was a serpent's sting, But, wrapt in my gloomy gown, I sat, like a marble thing, As she told me all!—Sit down!
More wine, Fra Giacomo! One cup,—if you love me! No? What, have these dry lips drank So deep of the sweets of pleasure— Sub rosa, but quite without measure— That Montepulciano tastes rank? Come, drink! 't will bring the streaks Of crimson back to your cheeks; Come, drink again to the saint Whose virtues you loved to paint, Who, stretched on her wifely bed, With the tender, grave expression You used to admire at confession, Lies poisoned, overhead!
Sit still,—or by heaven, you die! Face to face, soul to soul, you and I Have settled accounts, in a fine Pleasant fashion, over our wine. Stir not, and seek not to fly,— Nay, whether or not, you are mine! Thank Montepulciano for giving You death in such delicate sips; 'T is not every monk ceases living With so pleasant a taste on his lips; But, lest Montepulciano unsurely should kiss, Take this! and this! and this!
Cover him over, Pietro, And bury him in the court below,— You can be secret, lad, I know! And, hark you, then to the convent go,— Bid every bell of the convent toll, And the monks say mass for your mistress' soul.
ROBERT BUCHANAN.
GINEVRA.
If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance To Modena, where still religiously Among her ancient trophies is preserved Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandina), Stop at a palace near the Reggio gate, Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, Will long detain thee; through their archèd walks, Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse Of knights and dames, such as in old romance, And lovers, such as in heroic song, Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight, That in the springtime, as alone they sat, Venturing together on a tale of love, Read only part that day.—A summer sun Sets ere one half is seen; but ere thou go, Enter the house—prythee, forget it not— And look awhile upon a picture there.
'T is of a Lady in her earliest youth, The last of that illustrious race; Done by Zampieri—but I care not whom. He who observes it, ere he passes on, Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, That he may call it up when far away.
She sits inclining forward as to speak, Her lips half open, and her finger up, As though she said "Beware!" her vest of gold Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot, An emerald stone in every golden clasp; And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, A coronet of pearls. But then her face, So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, The overflowings of an innocent heart,— It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, Like some wild melody! Alone it hangs Over a moldering heirloom, its companion, An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm, But richly carved by Antony of Trent With Scripture stories from the life of Christ; A chest that came from Venice, and had held The ducal robes of some old Ancestor, That, by the way—it may be true or false— But don't forget the picture; and thou wilt not When thou hast heard the tale they told me there.
She was an only child; from infancy The joy, the pride, of an indulgent Sire; Her Mother dying of the gift she gave, That precious gift, what else remained to him? The young Ginevra was his all in life, Still as she grew, for ever in his sight; And in her fifteenth year became a bride, Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.
Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, She was all gentleness, all gayety, Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. But now the day was come, the day, the hour; Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum; And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.
Great was the joy; but at the Bridal-feast, When all sate down, the bride was wanting there, Nor was she to be found! Her Father cried, "'T is but to make a trial of our love!" And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook, And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 'T was but that instant she had left Francesco, Laughing and looking back, and flying still, Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. But now, alas, she was not to be found; Nor from that hour could anything be guessed, But that she was not! Weary of his life, Francesco flew to Venice, and, forthwith, Flung it away in battle with the Turk. Orsini lived,—and long mightst thou have seen An old man wandering as in quest of something, Something he could not find, he knew not what. When he was gone, the house remained awhile Silent and tenantless,—then went to strangers.
Full fifty years were past, and all forgot, When, on an idle day, a day of search Mid the old lumber in the Gallery, That moldering chest was noticed; and 't was said By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, "Why not remove it from its lurking-place?" 'T was done as soon as said; but on the way It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton, With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold! All else had perished,—save a nuptial-ring, And a small seal, her mother's legacy, Engraven with a name, the name of both, "Ginevra." There then had she found a grave! Within that chest had she concealed herself, Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy; When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, Fastened her down for ever!
BERNARDO DEL CARPIO.
The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire, And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire; "I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive train, I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!—oh, break my father's chain!"
"Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man this day; Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet him on his way." Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed.
And lo! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glittering band, With one that 'midst them stately rode, as a leader in the land; "Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he, The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to see."
His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's blood came and went; He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there, dismounting, bent; A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took,— What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook?
That hand was cold,—a frozen thing,—it dropped from his like lead,— He looked up to the face above,—the face was of the dead! A plume waved o'er the noble brow,—the brow was fixed and white;— He met at last his father's eyes,—but in them was no sight!
Up from the ground he sprung, and gazed, but who could paint that gaze? They hushed their very hearts, that saw its horror and amaze; They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood, For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood.
"Father!" at length he murmured low, and wept like childhood then: Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men! He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown; He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sate down.
Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow,— "No more, there is no more," he said, "to lift the sword for now; My king is false, my hope betrayed; my father—oh! the worth, The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from earth!
"I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire! beside thee yet, I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met! Thou wouldst have known my spirit then; for thee my fields were won; And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!"
Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein, Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier train; And with a fierce o'ermastering grasp, the raging war-horse led, And sternly set them face to face,—the king before the dead!
"Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss? Be still, and gaze thou on, false king, and tell me what is this? The voice, the glance, the heart I sought—give answer, where are they? If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay!
"Into these glassy eyes put light;—be still! keep down thine ire! Bid these white lips a blessing speak,—this earth is not my sire! Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed, Thou canst not?—and a king!—his dust be mountains on thy head!"
He loosed the steed; his slack hand fell; upon the silent face He cast one long, deep, troubled look,—then turned from that sad place. His hope was crushed, his after-fate untold in martial strain: His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain.
FELICIA HEMANS.
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON.
Eternal spirit of the chainless mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, For there thy habitation is the heart,— The heart which love of thee alone can bind; And when thy sons to fetters are consigned,— To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom,— Their country conquers with their martyrdom, And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. Chillon! thy prison is a holy place, And thy sad floor an altar,—for 't was trod, Until his very steps have left a trace Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard!—May none those marks efface! For they appeal from tyranny to God.
————
My hair is gray, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears: My limbs are bowed, though not with toil, But rusted with a vile repose, For they have been a dungeon spoil, And mine has been the fate of those To whom the goodly earth and air Are banned, and barred,—forbidden fare; But this was for my father's faith I suffered chains and courted death; That father perished at the stake For tenets he would not forsake; And for the same his lineal race In darkness found a dwelling-place; We were seven,—who now are one, Six in youth, and one in age, Finished as they had begun, Proud of Persecution's rage; One in fire, and two in field, Their belief with blood have sealed! Dying as their father died, For the God their foes denied; Three were in a dungeon cast, Of whom this wreck is left the last.
There are seven pillars of Gothic mould In Chillon's dungeons deep and old, There are seven columns, massy and gray, Dim with a dull imprisoned ray,— A sunbeam which hath lost its way, And through the crevice and the cleft Of the thick wall is fallen and left, Creeping o'er the floor so damp, Like a marsh's meteor lamp,— And in each pillar there is a ring, And in each ring there is a chain; That iron is a cankering thing; For in these limbs its teeth remain With marks that will not wear away, Till I have done with this new day, Which now is painful to these eyes, Which have not seen the sun to rise For years,—I cannot count them o'er, I lost their long and heavy score When my last brother drooped and died, And I lay living by his side.
They chained us each to a column stone, And we were three, yet each alone; We could not move a single pace, We could not see each other's face, But with that pale and livid light That made us strangers in our sight; And thus together, yet apart, Fettered in hand, but pined in heart; 'T was still some solace, in the dearth Of the pure elements of earth, To hearken to each other's speech, And each turn comforter to each With some new hope, or legend old, Or song heroically bold; But even these at length grew cold. Our voices took a dreary tone, An echo of the dungeon-stone, A grating sound,-not full and free As they of yore were wont to be; It might be fancy,—but to me They never sounded like our own.
I was the eldest of the three, And to uphold and cheer the rest I ought to do—and did—my best, And each did well in his degree. The youngest, whom my father loved, Because our mother's brow was given To him, with eyes as blue as heaven,— For him my soul was sorely moved; And truly might it be distrest To see such bird in such a nest; For he was beautiful as day (When day was beautiful to me As to young eagles, being free),— A polar day, which will not see A sunset till its summer's gone, Its sleepless summer of long light, The snow-clad offspring of the sun; And thus he was as pure and bright, And in his natural spirit gay, With tears for naught but others' ills, And then they flowed like mountain rills, Unless he could assuage the woe Which he abhorred to view below.
The other was as pure of mind, But formed to combat with his kind; Strong in his frame, and of a mood Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, And perished in the foremost rank With joy;—but not in chains to pine; His spirit withered with their clank, I saw it silently decline,— And so perchance in sooth did mine; But yet I forced it on to cheer Those relics of a home so dear. He was a hunter of the hills, Had followed there the deer and wolf; To him this dungeon was a gulf And fettered feet the worst of ills.
Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls: A thousand feet in depth below Its massy waters meet and flow; Thus much the fathom-line was sent From Chillon's snow-white battlement, Which round about the wave inthralls; And double dungeon wall and wave Have made,—and like a living grave. Below the surface of the lake The dark vault lies wherein we lay, We heard it ripple night and day; Sounding o'er our heads it knocked; And I have felt the winter's spray Wash through the bars when winds were high And wanton in the happy sky; And then the very rock hath rocked, And I have felt it shake, unshocked, Because I could have smiled to see The death that would have set me free.
I said my nearer brother pined, I said his mighty heart declined, He loathed and put away his food; It was not that 't was coarse and rude, For we were used to hunter's fare, And for the like had little care; The milk drawn from the mountain goat Was changed for water from the moat. Our bread was such as captives' tears Have moistened many a thousand years, Since man first pent his fellow-men Like brutes within an iron den; But what were these to us or him? These wasted not his heart or limb; My brother's soul was of that mould Which in a palace had grown cold, Had his free breathing been denied The range of the steep mountain's side; But why delay the truth?—he died. I saw, and could not hold his head, Nor reach his dying hand—nor dead— Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. He died,—and they unlocked his chain, And scooped for him a shallow grave Even from the cold earth of our cave. I begged them, as a boon, to lay His corse in dust whereon the day Might shine,—it was a foolish thought, But then within my brain it wrought, That even in death his free-born breast In such a dungeon could not rest. I might have spared my idle prayer,— They coldly laughed, and laid him there. The flat and turfless earth above The being we so much did love; His empty chain above it leant, Such murder's fitting monument!
But he, the favorite and the flower, Most cherished since his natal hour, His mother's image in fair face, The infant love of all his race, His martyred father's dearest thought, My latest care, for whom I sought To hoard my life, that his might be Less wretched now, and one day free; He, too, who yet had held untired A spirit natural or inspired,— He, too, was struck, and day by day Was withered on the stalk away. O God! it is a fearful thing To see the human soul take wing In any shape, in any mood:— I've seen it rushing forth in blood, I've seen it on the breaking ocean Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, I've seen the sick and ghastly bed Of Sin delirious with its dread: But these were horrors,—this was woe Unmixed with such,—but sure and slow: He faded, and so calm and meek, So softly worn, so sweetly weak, So tearless, yet so tender—kind, And grieved for those he left behind; With all the while a cheek whose bloom Was as a mockery of the tomb, Whose tints as gently sunk away As a departing rainbow's ray,— An eye of most transparent light, That almost made the dungeon bright, And not a word of murmur,—not A groan o'er his untimely lot,— A little talk of better days, A little hope my own to raise, For I was sunk in silence,—lost In this last loss, of all the most; And then the sighs he would suppress Of fainting nature's feebleness, More slowly drawn, grew less and less: I listened, but I could not hear,— I called, for I was wild with fear; I knew 't was hopeless, but my dread Would not be thus admonishèd; I called, and thought I heard a sound,— I burst my chain with one strong bound, And rushed to him:—I found him not, I only stirred in this black spot, I only lived,—I only drew The accursed breath of dungeon-dew; The last—the sole—the dearest link Between me and the eternal brink, Which bound me to my failing race, Was broken in this fatal place. One on the earth, and one beneath— My brothers—both had ceased to breathe. I took that hand which lay so still, Alas! my own was full as chill; I had not strength to stir or strive, But felt that I was still alive,— A frantic feeling when we know That what we love shall ne'er be so. I know not why I could not die, I had no earthly hope—but faith, And that forbade a selfish death.
What next befell me then and there I know not well—I never knew. First came the loss of light and air, And then of darkness too; I had no thought, no feeling—none: Among the stones I stood a stone, And was, scarce conscious what I wist, As shrubless crags within the mist; For all was blank and bleak and gray; It was not night,—it was not day; It was not even the dungeon-light, So hateful to my heavy sight; But vacancy absorbing space, And fixedness, without a place: There were no stars—no earth—no time— No check—no change—no good—no crime: But silence, and a stirless breath Which neither was of life nor death:— A sea of stagnant idleness, Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless!
A light broke in upon my brain,— It was the carol of a bird; It ceased, and then it came again,— The sweetest song ear ever heard, And mine was thankful till my eyes Ran over with the glad surprise, And they that moment could not see I was the mate of misery; But then by dull degrees came back My senses to their wonted track, I saw the dungeon walls and floor Close slowly round me as before, I saw the glimmer of the sun Creeping as it before had done, But through the crevice where it came That bird was perched, as fond and tame, And tamer than upon the tree; A lovely bird, with azure wings, And song that said a thousand things, And seemed to say them all for me! I never saw its like before, I ne'er shall see its likeness more. It seemed, like me, to want a mate, But was not half so desolate, And it was come to love me when None lived to love me so again, And cheering from my dungeon's brink, Had brought me back to feel and think. I know not if it late were free, Or broke its cage to perch on mine, But knowing well captivity, Sweet bird! I could not wish for thine! Or if it were, in wingèd guise, A visitant from Paradise: For—Heaven forgive that thought! the while Which made me both to weep and smile— I sometimes deemed that it might be My brother's soul come down to me; But then at last away it flew, And then 't was mortal,—well I knew, For he would never thus have flown, And left me twice so doubly lone,— Lone—as the corse within its shroud, Lone—as a solitary cloud, A single cloud on a sunny day, While all the rest of heaven is clear, A frown upon the atmosphere That hath no business to appear When skies are blue and earth is gay.
A kind of change came in my fate, My keepers grew compassionate; I know not what had made them so, They were inured to sights of woe, But so it was:—my broken chain With links unfastened did remain, And it was liberty to stride Along my cell from side to side, And up and down, and then athwart, And tread it over every part; And round the pillars one by one, Returning where my walk begun, Avoiding only, as I trod, My brothers' graves without a sod; For if I thought with heedless tread My step profaned their lowly bed, My breath came gaspingly and thick, And my crushed heart fell blind and sick.
I made a footing in the wall, It was not therefrom to escape, For I had buried one and all Who loved me in a human shape: And the whole earth would henceforth be A wider prison unto me: No child,—no sire,—no kin had I, No partner in my misery; I thought of this and I was glad, For thought of them had made me mad; But I was curious to ascend To my barred windows, and to bend Once more, upon the mountains high, The quiet of a loving eye.
I saw them,—and they were the same, They were not changed like me in frame; I saw their thousand years of snow On high,—their wide long lake below, And the blue Rhone in fullest flow; I heard the torrents leap and gush O'er channelled rock and broken bush; I saw the white-walled distant town, And whiter sails go skimming down; And then there was a little isle, Which in my very face did smile, The only one in view; A small green isle, it seemed no more, Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, But in it there were three tall trees, And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, And by it there were waters flowing, And on it there were young flowers growing, Of gentle breath and hue. The fish swam by the castle wall, And they seemed joyous each and all; The eagle rode the rising blast,— Methought he never flew so fast As then to me he seemed to fly, And then new tears came in my eye, And I felt troubled,—and would fain I had not left my recent chain; And when I did descend again, The darkness of my dim abode Fell on me as a heavy load; It was as in a new-dug grave Closing o'er one we sought to save, And yet my glance, too much oppressed, Had almost need of such a rest.
It might be months, or years, or days, I kept no count,—I took no note, I had no hope my eyes to raise, And clear them of their dreary mote; At last men came to set me free, I asked not why and recked not where, It was at length the same to me, Fettered or fetterless to be, I learned to love despair. And thus when they appeared at last, And all my bonds aside were cast, These heavy walls to me had grown A hermitage, and all my own! And half I felt as they were come To tear me from a second home; With spiders I had friendship made, And watched them in their sullen trade, Had seen the mice by moonlight play, And why should I feel less than they? We were all inmates of one place, And I, the monarch of each race, Had power to kill,—yet, strange to tell; In quiet we had learned to dwell,— My very chains and I grew friends, So much a long communion tends To make us what we are:—even I Regained my freedom with a sigh.
LORD BYRON.
BEFORE SEDAN.
"The dead hand clasped a letter." —Special Correspondent.
Here in this leafy place, Quiet he lies, Cold, with his sightless face Turned to the skies; 'T is but another dead;— All you can say is said.
Carry his body hence,— Kings must have slaves; Kings climb to eminence Over men's graves. So this man's eye is dim;— Throw the earth over him.
What was the white you touched, There at his side? Paper his hand had clutched Tight ere he died; Message or wish, may be:— Smooth out the folds and see.
Hardly the worst of us Here could have smiled!— Only the tremulous Words of a child:— Prattle, that had for stops Just a few ruddy drops.
Look. She is sad to miss, Morning and night, His—her dead father's—kiss, Tries to be bright, Good to mamma, and sweet. That is all. "Marguerite."
Ah, if beside the dead Slumbered the pain! Ah, if the hearts that bled Slept with the slain! If the grief died!—But no:— Death will not have it so.
AUSTIN DOBSON.
IVÀN IVÀNOVITCH.
Early one winter morn, in such a village as this, Snow-whitened everywhere except the middle road Ice-roughed by track of sledge, there worked by his abode Ivàn Ivànovitch, the carpenter, employed On a huge shipmast trunk; his axe now trimmed and toyed With branch and twig, and now some chop athwart the bole
ROBERT BROWNING.
After a life-photograph by Elliott & Fry, London
Changed bole to billets, bared at once the sap and soul. About him, watched the work his neighbors sheep-skin-clad; Each bearded mouth puffed steam, each gray eye twinkled glad To see the sturdy arm which, never stopping play, Proved strong man's blood still boils, freeze winter as he may. Sudden, a burst of bells. Out of the road, on edge Of the hamlet—horse's hoofs galloping. "How, a sledge? What 's here?" cried all as—in, up to the open space, Workyard and market-ground, folk's common meeting-place,— Stumbled on, till he fell, in one last bound for life, A horse; and, at his heels, a sledge held—"Dmìtri's wife! Back without Dmìtri too! and children—where are they? Only a frozen corpse!"
They drew it forth: then—"Nay, Not dead, though like to die! Gone hence a month ago: Home again, this rough jaunt—alone through night and snow— What can the cause be? Hark—Droug, old horse, how he groans: His day 's done! Chafe away, keep chafing, for she moans: She's coming to! Give here: see, motherkin, your friends! Cheer up, all safe at home! Warm inside makes amends For outside cold,—sup quick! Don't look as we were bears! What is it startles you? What strange adventure stares Up at us in your face? You know friends—which is which? I'm Vàssili, he's Sergeì, Ivàn Ivànovitch"—
At the word, the woman's eyes, slow-wandering till they neared The blue eyes o'er the bush of honey-colored beard, Took in full light and sense and—torn to rags, some dream Which hid the naked truth—O loud and long the scream She gave, as if all power of voice within her throat Poured itself wild away to waste in one dread note! Then followed gasps and sobs, and then the steady flow Of kindly tears: the brain was saved, a man might know. Down fell her face upon the good friend's propping knee; His broad hands smoothed her head, as fain to brush it free From fancies, swarms that stung like bees unhived. He soothed— "Loukèria, Loùscha!"—still he, fondling, smoothed and smoothed. At last her lips formed speech.
"Ivàn, dear—you indeed? You, just the same dear you! While I ... Oh, intercede, Sweet Mother, with thy Son Almighty—let his might Bring yesterday once more, undo all done last night! But this time yesterday, Ivàn, I sat like you, A child on either knee, and, dearer than the two, A babe inside my arms, close to my heart—that 's lost In morsels o'er the snow! Father, Son, Holy Ghost, Cannot you bring again my blessèd yesterday?"
When no more tears would flow, she told her tale: this way.
"Maybe, a month ago,—was it not?—news came here, They wanted, deeper down, good workmen fit to rear A church and roof it in. 'We'll go,' my husband said: 'None understands like me to melt and mould their lead.' So, friends here helped us off—Ivàn, dear, you the first! How gay we jingled forth, all five—(my heart will burst)— While Dmìtri shook the reins, urged Droug upon his track! "Well, soon the month ran out, we just were coming back, When yesterday—behold, the village was on fire! Fire ran from house to house. What help, as, nigh and nigher, The flames came furious? 'Haste,' cried Dmìtri, 'men must do The little good man may: to sledge and in with you, You and our three! We check the fire by laying flat Each building in its path,—I needs must stay for that,— But you ... no time for talk! Wrap round you every rug, Cover the couple close,—you'll have the babe to hug. No care to guide old Droug, he knows his way, by guess, Once start him on the road: but chirrup, none the less! The snow lies glib as glass and hard as steel, and soon You'll have rise, fine and full, a marvel of a moon. Hold straight up, all the same, this lighted twist of pitch! Once home and with our friend Ivàn Ivànovitch, All 's safe: I have my pay in pouch, all 's right with me, So I but find as safe you and our precious three! Off, Droug!'—because the flames had reached us, and the men Shouted, 'But lend a hand, Dmìtri—as good as ten!' "So, in we bundled—I and those God gave me once; Old Droug, that 's stiff at first, seemed youthful for the nonce: He understood the case, galloping straight ahead. Out came the moon: my twist soon dwindled, feebly red In that unnatural day—yes, daylight bred between Moonlight and snow-light, lamped those grotto-depths which screen Such devils from God's eye. Ah, pines, how straight you grow, Nor bend one pitying branch, true breed of brutal snow! Some undergrowth had served to keep the devils blind While we escaped outside their border!
"Was that—wind? Anyhow, Droug starts, stops, back go his ears, he snuffs, Snorts,—never such a snort! then plunges, knows the sough 's Only the wind: yet, no—our breath goes up too straight! Still the low sound,—less low, loud, louder, at a rate There 's no mistaking more! Shall I lean out—look—learn The truth whatever it be? Pad, pad! At last, I turn—
"'T is the regular pad of the wolves in pursuit of the life in the sledge! An army they are: close-packed they press like the thrust of a wedge: They increase as they hunt: for I see, through the pine-trunks ranged each side, Slip forth new fiend and fiend, make wider and still more wide The four-footed steady advance. The foremost—none may pass: They are the elders and lead the line, eye and eye —green-glowing brass! But a long way distant still. Droug, save us! He does his best: Yet they gain on us, gain, till they reach,—one reaches ... How utter the rest? O that Satan-faced first of the band! How he lolls out the length of his tongue, How he laughs and lets gleam his white teeth! He is on me, his paws pry among The wraps and the rugs! O my pair, my twin-pigeons, lie still and seem dead! Stepàn, he shall never have you for a meal,— here's your mother instead! No, he will not be counselled—must cry, poor Stiòpka, so foolish! though first Of my boy-brood, he was not the best: nay, neighbors called him the worst: He was puny, an undersized slip,—a darling to me, all the same! But little there was to be praised in the boy, and a plenty to blame. I loved him with heart and soul, yes—but, deal him a blow for a fault, He would sulk for whole days. 'Foolish boy! lie still or the villain will vault, Will snatch you from over my head!' No use! he cries, he screams,—who can hold Fast a boy in frenzy of fear! It follows—as I foretold! The Satan-face snatched and snapped: I tugged, I tore, and then His brother too needs must shriek! If one must go, 't is men The Tsar needs, so we hear, not ailing boys! Perhaps My hands relaxed their grasp, got tangled in the wraps: God, he was gone! I looked: there tumbled the cursed crew, Each fighting for a share: too busy to pursue! That's so far gain at least: Droug, gallop another verst Or two, or three—God sends we beat them, arrive the first! A mother who boasts two boys was ever accounted rich: Some have not a boy: some have, but lose him,—God knows which Is worse: how pitiful to see your weakling pine And pale and pass away! Strong brats, this pair of mine!
"O misery! for while I settle to what near seems Content, I am 'ware again of the tramp, and again there gleams— Point and point—the line, eyes, levelled green brassy fire! So soon is resumed your chase? Will nothing appease, naught tire The furies? And yet I think—I am certain the race is slack, And the numbers are nothing like. Not a quarter of the pack! Feasters and those full-fed are staying behind ... Ah, why? We 'll sorrow for that too soon! Now,—gallop, reach home and die, Nor ever again leave house, to trust our life in the trap For life—we call a sledge! Teriòscha, in my lap! Yes, I 'll lie down upon you, tight-tie you with the strings Here—of my heart! No fear, this time, your mother flings ... Flings? I flung? Never! But think!—a woman, after all, Contending with a wolf! Save you I must and shall, Terentiì!
"How now? What, you still head the race, Your eyes and tongue and teeth crave fresh food, Satan-face? Flash again? There and there! Plain I struck green fire out! All a poor fist can do to damage eyes proves vain! My fist—why not crunch that? He is wanton for ... O God, Why give this wolf his taste? Common wolves scrape and prod The earth till out they scratch some corpse—mere putrid flesh! Why must this glutton leave the faded, choose the fresh? Terentiì—God, feel!—his neck keeps fast thy bag Of holy things, saints' bones, this Satan-face will drag Forth, and devour along with him, our Pope declared The relics were to save from danger!
"Spurned, not spared! 'T was through my arms, crossed arms, he—nuzzling now with snout, Now ripping, tooth and claw—plucked, pulled Terentiì out, A prize indeed! I saw—how could I else but see?— My precious one—I bit to hold back—pulled from me! Up came the others, fell to dancing—did the imps!— Skipped as they scampered round. There 's one is gray, and limps: Who knows but old bad Màrpha—she always owed me spite And envied me my births—skulks out of doors at night And turns into a wolf, and joins the sisterhood, And laps the youthful life, then slinks from out the wood, Squats down at the door by dawn, spins there demure as erst —No strength, old crone—not she!—to crawl forth half a verst!
"Well, I escaped with one: 'twixt one and none there lies The space 'twixt heaven and hell. And see, a rose-light dyes The endmost snow: 't is dawn, 't is day, 't is safe at home! We have outwitted you! Ay, monsters, snarl and foam, Fight each the other fiend, disputing for a share,— Forgetful in your greed, our finest off we bear, Tough Droug and I,—my babe, my boy that shall be man, My man that shall be more, do all a hunter can To trace and follow and find and catch and crucify Wolves, wolfkins, all your crew! A thousand deaths shall die The whimperingest cub that ever squeezed the teat! 'Take that!' we 'll stab you with,—'the tenderness we met When, wretches, you danced round,—not this, thank God—not this! Hellhounds, we balk you!'
"But—Ah, God above!—Bliss, bliss,— Not the band, no! And yet—yes, for Droug knows him! One— This only of them all has said 'She saves a son!' His fellows disbelieve such luck: but he believes, He lets them pick the bones, laugh at him in their sleeves: He's off and after us,—one speck, one spot, one ball Grows bigger, bound on bound,—one wolf as good as all! Oh, but I know the trick! Have at the snaky tongue! That 's the right way with wolves! Go, tell your mates I wrung The panting morsel out, left you to howl your worst! Now for it—now! Ah me, I know him—thrice-accurst Satan-face,—him to the end my foe!
"All fight's in vain: This time the green brass points pierce to my very brain. I fall—fall as I ought—quite on the babe I guard: I overspread with flesh the whole of him. Too hard To die this way, torn piecemeal? Move hence? Not I—one inch! Gnaw through me, through and through: flat thus I lie nor flinch! O God, the feel of the fang furrowing my shoulder!—see! It grinds—it grates the bone. O Kìrill under me, Could I do more? Besides he knew the wolf's way to win: I clung, closed round like wax: yet in he wedged and in, Past my neck, past my breasts, my heart, until ... how feels The onion-bulb your knife parts, pushing through its peels, Till out you scoop its clove wherein lie stalk and leaf And bloom and seed unborn?
"That slew me: yes, in brief, I died then, dead I lay doubtlessly till Droug stopped Here, I suppose. I come to life, I find me propped Thus,—how or when or why—I know not. Tell me, friends, All was a dream: laugh quick and say the nightmare ends! Soon I shall find my house: 't is over there: in proof, Save for that chimney heaped with snow, you'd see the roof Which holds my three—my two—my one—not one?
"Life 's mixed With misery, yet we live—must live. The Satan fixed His face on mine so fast, I took its print as pitch Takes what it cools beneath. Ivàn Ivànovitch, 'T is you unharden me, you thaw, disperse the thing! Only keep looking kind, the horror will not cling, Your face smooths fast away each print of Satan. Tears —What good they do! Life's sweet, and all its after-years, Ivàn Ivànovitch, I owe you! Yours am I! May God reward you, dear!"
Down she sank. Solemnly Ivàn rose, raised his axe,—for fitly as she knelt, Her head lay: well apart, each side, her arms hung,—dealt Lightning-swift thunder-strong one blow—no need of more! Headless she knelt on still: that pine was sound of core (Neighbors used to say)—cast-iron-kernelled—which Taxed for a second stroke Ivàn Ivànovitch.
The man was scant of words as strokes. "It had to be: I could no other: God it was, bade 'Act for me!'" Then stooping, peering round—what is it now he lacks? A proper strip of bark wherewith to wipe his axe, Which done, he turns, goes in, closes the door behind. The others mute remain, watching the blood-snake wind Into a hiding-place among the splinter-heaps.
At length, still mute, all move: one lifts—from where it steeps Redder each ruddy rag of pine—the head: two more Take up the dripping body: then, mute still as before, Move in a sort of march, march on till marching ends Opposite to the church; where halting,—who suspends, By its long hair, the thing, deposits in its place The piteous head: once more the body shows no trace Of harm done: there lies whole the Loùscha, maid and wife And mother, loved until this latest of her life. Then all sit on the bank of snow which bounds a space Kept free before the porch of judgment: just the place!
Presently all the souls, man, woman, child which make The village up, are found assembling for the sake Of what is to be done. The very Jews are there: A Gypsy-troop, though bound with horses for the Fair, Squats with the rest. Each heart with its conception seethes And simmers, but no tongue speaks: one may say,—none breathes.
Anon from out the church totters the Pope—the priest— Hardly alive, so old, a hundred years at least. With him, the Commune's head, a hoary senior too, Stàrosta, that's his style,—like Equity Judge with you,— Natural Jurisconsult: then, fenced about with furs, Pomeschik—Lord of the Land, who wields—and none demurs— A power of life and death. They stoop, survey the corpse.
Then, straightened on his staff, the Stàrosta—the thorpe's Sagaciousest old man—hears what you just have heard, From Droug's first inrush, all, up to Ivàn's last word— "God bade me act for him: I dared not disobey!"
Silence—the Pomeschik broke with "A wild wrong way Of righting wrong—if wrong there were, such wrath to rouse! Why was not law observed?
————
Ivàn Ivànovitch has done a deed that's named Murder by law and me: who doubts, may speak unblamed!"
All turned to the old Pope. "Ay, children, I am old— How old, myself have got to know no longer. Rolled Quite round, my orb of life, from infancy to age, Seems passing back again to youth. A certain stage At least I reach, or dream I reach, where I discern Truer truths, laws behold more lawlike than we learn When first we set our foot to tread the course I trod With man to guide my steps: who leads me now is God. 'Your young men shall see visions:' and in my youth I saw And paid obedience to man's visionary law: 'Your old men shall dream dreams.' And, in my age, a hand Conducts me through the cloud round law to where I stand Firm on its base,—know cause, who, before, knew effect.
————
I hold he saw The unexampled sin, ordained the novel law, Whereof first instrument was first intelligence Found loyal here. I hold that, failing human sense, The very earth had oped, sky fallen, to efface Humanity's new wrong, motherhood's first disgrace. Earth oped not, neither fell the sky, for prompt was found A man and man enough, head-sober and heart-sound Ready to hear God's voice, resolute to obey. Ivàn Ivànovitch, I hold, has done, this day, No otherwise than did, in ages long ago, Moses when he made known the purport of that flow Of fire athwart the law's twain-tables! I proclaim Ivàn Ivànovitch God's servant!"
————
When the Amen grew dull And died away and left acquittal plain adjudged, "Amen!" last sighed the lord. "There's none shall say I grudged Escape from punishment in such a novel case. Deferring to old age and holy life,—be grace Granted! say I. No less, scruples might shake a sense Firmer than I boast mine. Law's law, and evidence Of breach therein lies plain,—blood-red-bright—all may see! Yet all absolve the deed: absolved the deed must be!"
————
So, while the youngers raised the corpse, the elders trooped Silently to the house: where halting, some one stooped, Listened beside the door; all there was silent too. Then they held counsel; then pushed door and, passing through, Stood in the murderer's presence.
Ivàn Ivànovitch Knelt, building on the floor that Kremlin rare and rich He deftly cut and carved on lazy winter nights. Some five young faces watched, breathlessly, as, to rights, Piece upon piece, he reared the fabric nigh complete. Stèscha, Ivàn's old mother, sat spinning by the heat Of the oven where his wife Kàtia stood baking bread. Ivàn's self, as he turned his honey-colored head, Was just in the act to drop, 'twixt fir-cones,—each a dome, The scooped-out yellow gourd presumably the home Of Kolokol the Big: the bell, therein to hitch, —An acorn-cup—was ready: Ivàn Ivànovitch Turned with it in his mouth.
They told him he was free As air to walk abroad. "How otherwise?" asked he.
ROBERT BROWNING.
A DAGGER OF THE MIND FROM "MACBETH," ACT II. SC. 1.
[Macbeth, before the murder of Duncan, meditating alone, sees the image of a dagger in the air, and thus soliloquizes:]
Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee:— I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressèd brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw. Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going; And such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still; And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, Which was not so before.—There's no such thing: It is the bloody business, which informs Thus to mine eyes.—Now o'er the one half world Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The curtained sleep; witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate's offerings; and withered murder, Alarumed by his sentinel, the wolf, Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design Moves like a ghost.—Thou sure and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear The very stones prate of my whereabout, And take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it.—Whiles I threat, he lives: Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.
I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven or to hell.
SHAKESPEARE.
THE MURDER. FROM "MACBETH," ACT II. SC. 2.
Scene in the Castle. Enter Lady Macbeth.
Lady Macbeth.—That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold, What hath quenched them hath given me fire. Hark!—Peace! It was the owl that shrieked, the fatal bellman, Which gives the stern'st good night. He is about it: The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms Do mark their charge with snores: I have drugged their possets, That death and nature do contend about them, Whether they live or die.
Macbeth (within).—Who's there? What, ho!
Lady Macbeth.—Alack, I am afraid they have awaked And 't is not done:—the attempt and not the deed Confounds us.—Hark!—I laid their daggers ready; He could not miss them.—Had he not resembled My father, as he slept, I had done 't.—My husband!
(Enter Macbeth.)
Macbeth.—I have done the deed. Didst thou not hear a noise?
Lady Macbeth.—I heard the owl scream, and the crickets cry. Did not you speak?
Macbeth.—When?
Lady Macbeth.—Now.
Macbeth.—As I descended?
Lady Macbeth.—Ay.
Macbeth.—Hark!— Who lies i' the second chamber?
Lady Macbeth.—Donalbain.
Macbeth (looking on his hands).—This is a sorry sight.
Lady Macbeth.—A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight.
Macbeth.—There's one did laugh in 's sleep, and one cried, "Murder!" That they did wake each other: I stood and heard them: But they did say their prayers, and addressed them Again to sleep.
Lady Macbeth.—There are two lodged together.
Macbeth.—One cried, "God bless us!" and, "Amen," the other; As they had seen me with these hangman's hands. Listening their fear, I could not say, "Amen," When they did say, "God bless us."
Lady Macbeth.—Consider it not so deeply.
Macbeth.—But wherefore could not I pronounce "Amen"? I had most need of blessing, and "Amen" Stuck in my throat.
Lady Macbeth.—These deeds must not be thought After these ways; so, it will make us mad.
Macbeth.—Methought I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep,"—the innocent sleep, Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care, The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast,—
Lady Macbeth.—What do you mean?
Macbeth.—Still it cried, "Sleep no more!" to all the house: "Glamis hath murdered sleep; and therefore Cawdor Shall sleep no more,—Macbeth shall sleep no more!"
Lady Macbeth.—Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane, You do unbend your noble strength, to think So brainsickly of things.—Go, get some water, And wash this filthy witness from your hand. Why did you bring these daggers from the place? They must lie there: go carry them; and smear The sleepy grooms with blood.
Macbeth.—I'll go no more! I am afraid to think what I have done; Look on 't again, I dare not.
Lady Macbeth.—Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping, and the dead, Are but as pictures: 't is the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal; For it must seem their guilt. [Exit. Knocking within.
Macbeth.—Whence is that knocking? How is 't with me, when every noise appalls me? What hands are here! Ha! they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather The multitudinous seas incarnadine, Making the green—one red.
(Re-enter Lady Macbeth.)
Lady Macbeth.—My hands are of your color; but I shame To wear a heart so white. (Knocking.) I hear a knocking At the south entry:—retire we to our chamber: A little water clears us of this deed: How easy is it then! Your constancy Hath left you unattended. (Knocking.) Hark, more knocking. Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us, And show us to be watchers:—be not lost So poorly in your thoughts.
Macbeth.—To know my deed, 't were best not know myself. (Knocking.) Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst.
THE TWA CORBIES.
As I was walking all alane, I heard two corbies making a mane; The tane unto the t'other say, "Where sall we gang and dine to-day?"
"In behint yon auld fail dyke, I wot there lies a new-slain knight; And nae body kens that he lies there, But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.
"His hound is to the hunting gane, His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, His lady's ta'en another mate, So we may make our dinner sweet.
"Ye 'll sit on his white hause bane, And I'll pike out his bonny blue een: Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair, We 'll theek our nest when it grows bare.
"Mony a one for him makes mane, But nane sall ken whare he is gane; O'er his white banes, when they are bare, The wind sall blaw for evermair."
THE SACK OF BALTIMORE.
[Baltimore is a small seaport in the barony of Carbery, in South Munster. It grew up around a castle of O'Driscoll's, and was, after his ruin, colonized by the English. On the 20th of June, 1631, the crews of two Algerine galleys landed in the dead of the night, sacked the town, and bore off into slavery all who were not too old, or too young, or too fierce, for their purpose. The pirates were steered up the intricate channel by one Hackett, a Dungarvan fisherman, whom they had taken at sea for the purpose. Two years later, he was convicted of the crime and executed. Baltimore never recovered from this.]
The summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's hundred isles, The summer sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles,— Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird; And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard: The hookers lie upon the beach; the children cease their play; The gossips leave the little inn; the households kneel to pray; And full of love and peace and rest,—its daily labor o'er,— Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore.
A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there; No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth or sea or air. The massive capes and ruined towers seem conscious of the calm; The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm. So still the night, these two long barks round Dunashad that glide Must trust their oars—methinks not few—against the ebbing tide. O, some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore,— They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore!
All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street, And these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet. A stifled gasp! a dreamy noise! The roof is in a flame! From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid and sire and dame, And meet upon the threshold stone, the gleaming sabre's fall, And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawl. The yell of "Allah!" breaks above the prayer and shriek and roar— O blessèd God! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore! Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing sword; Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gored; Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand-babes clutching wild; Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with the child. But see, yon pirate strangling lies, and crushed with splashing heel, While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steel; Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store, There 's one hearth well avenged in the sack of Baltimore!
Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds begin to sing; They see not now the milking-maids, deserted is the spring! Midsummer day, this gallant rides from the distant Bandon's town, These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that skiff from Affadown. They only found the smoking walls with neighbors' blood besprent, And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly went, Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Clear, and saw, five leagues before, The pirate-galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore.
O, some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed,— This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's jerreed. O, some are for the arsenals by beauteous Dardanelles, And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells. The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey, She 's safe,—she 's dead,—she stabbed him in the midst of his Serai; And when to die a death of fire that noble maid they bore, She only smiled,—O'Driscoll's child,—she thought of Baltimore.
'T is two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band, And all around its trampled hearth a larger concourse stand, Where high upon a gallows-tree a yelling wretch is seen,— 'T is Hackett of Dungarvan,—he who steered the Algerine! He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing prayer, For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there: Some muttered of MacMorrogh, who had brought the Norman o'er, Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore.
THE ROSE AND THE GAUNTLET.
Low spake the knight to the peasant-girl: "I tell thee sooth, I am belted earl; Fly with me from this garden small And thou shalt sit in my castle's hall;
"Thou shalt have pomp, and wealth, and pleasure, Joys beyond thy fancy's measure; Here with my sword and horse I stand, To bear thee away to my distant land.
"Take, thou fairest! this full-blown rose, A token of love that as ripely blows." With his glove of steel he plucked the token, But it fell from his gauntlet crushed and broken.
The maiden exclaimed, "Thou seest, sir knight, Thy fingers of iron can only smite; And, like the rose thou hast torn and scattered, I in thy grasp should be wrecked and shattered."
She trembled and blushed, and her glances fell; But she turned from the knight, and said, "Farewell!" "Not so," he cried, "will I lose my prize; I heed not thy words, but I read thine eyes."
He lifted her up in his grasp of steel, And he mounted and spurred with furious heel; But her cry drew forth her hoary sire, Who snatched his bow from above the fire.
Swift from the valley the warrior fled, Swifter the bolt of the crossbow sped; And the weight that pressed on the fleet-foot horse Was the living man, and the woman's corse.
That morning the rose was bright of hue; That morning the maiden was fair to view; But the evening sun its beauty shed On the withered leaves, and the maiden dead.
JOHN STERLING.
THE YOUNG GRAY HEAD.
Grief hath been known to turn the young head gray,— To silver over in a single day The bright locks of the beautiful, their prime Scarcely o'erpast; as in the fearful time Of Gallia's madness, that discrownèd head Serene, that on the accursèd altar bled Miscalled of Liberty. O martyred Queen! What must the sufferings of that night have been— That one—that sprinkled thy fair tresses o'er With time's untimely snow! But now no more, Lovely, august, unhappy one! of thee— I have to tell a humbler history; A village tale, whose only charm, in sooth (If any), will be sad and simple truth.
"Mother," quoth Ambrose to his thrifty dame,— So oft our peasant's use his wife to name, "Father" and "Master" to himself applied, As life's grave duties matronize the bride,— "Mother," quoth Ambrose, as he faced the north With hard-set teeth, before he issued forth To his day labor, from the cottage door,— "I'm thinking that, to-night, if not before, There 'll be wild work. Dost hear old Chewton [1] roar? It's brewing up, down westward; and look there, One of those sea-gulls! ay, there goes a pair; And such a sudden thaw! If rain comes on, As threats, the waters will be out anon. That path by the ford 's a nasty bit of way,— Best let the young ones bide from school to-day."
"Do, mother, do!" the quick-eared urchins cried; Two little lasses to the father's side Close clinging, as they looked from him, to spy The answering language of the mother's eye. There was denial, and she shook her head: "Nay, nay,—no harm will come to them," she said, "The mistress lets them off these short dark days An hour the earlier; and our Liz, she says, May quite be trusted—and I know 't is true— To take care of herself and Jenny too. And so she ought,—she's seven come first of May,— Two years the oldest; and they give away The Christmas bounty at the school to-day."
The mother's will was law (alas, for her That hapless day, poor soul!)—she could not err, Thought Ambrose; and his little fair-haired Jane (Her namesake) to his heart he hugged again. When each had had her turn; she clinging so As if that day she could not let him go. But Labor's sons must snatch a hasty bliss In nature's tenderest mood. One last fond kiss, "God bless my little maids!" the father said, And cheerily went his way to win their bread. Then might be seen, the playmate parent gone, What looks demure the sister pair put on,— Not of the mother as afraid, or shy, Or questioning the love that could deny; But simply, as their simple training taught, In quiet, plain straightforwardness of thought (Submissively resigned the hope of play) Towards the serious business of the day.
To me there 's something touching, I confess, In the grave look of early thoughtfulness, Seen often in some little childish face Among the poor. Not that wherein we trace (Shame to our land, our rulers, and our race!) The unnatural sufferings of the factory child. But a staid quietness, reflective, mild, Betokening, in the depths of those young eyes, Sense of life's cares, without its miseries. So to the mother's charge, with thoughtful brow, The docile Lizzy stood attentive now. Proud of her years and of the imputed sense, And prudence justifying confidence,— And little Jenny, more demurely still, Beside her waited the maternal will. So standing hand in hand, a lovelier twain Gainsborough ne'er painted: no—nor he of Spain, Glorious Murillo!—and by contrast shown More beautiful. The younger little one, With large blue eyes and silken ringlets fair, By nut-brown Lizzy, with smooth parted hair, Sable and glossy as the raven's wing, And lustrous eyes as dark. "Now, mind and bring Jenny safe home," the mother said,—"don't stay To pull a bough or berry by the way: And when you come to cross the ford, hold fast Your little sister's hand, till you 're quite past,— That plank's so crazy, and so slippery (If not o'erflowed) the stepping-stones will be. But you're good children—steady as old folk— I'd trust ye anywhere." Then Lizzy's cloak, A good gray duffle, lovingly she tied, And ample little Jenny's lack supplied With her own warmest shawl. "Be sure," said she, "To wrap it round and knot it carefully (Like this), when you come home, just leaving free One hand to hold by. Now, make haste away— Good will to school, and then good right to play."
Was there no sinking at the mother's heart When, all equipt, they turned them to depart? When down the lane she watched them as they went Till out of sight, was no forefeeling sent Of coming ill? In truth I cannot tell: Such warnings have been sent, we know full well And must believe—believing that they are— In mercy then—to rouse, restrain, prepare.
And now I mind me, something of the kind Did surely haunt that day the mother's mind, Making it irksome to bide all alone By her own quiet hearth. Though never known For idle gossipry was Jenny Gray, Yet so it was, that morn she could not stay At home with her own thoughts, but took her way To her next neighbor's, half a loaf to borrow,— Yet might her store have lasted out the morrow,— And with the loan obtained, she lingered still. Said she, "My master, if he 'd had his will, Would have kept back our little ones from school This dreadful morning; and I'm such a fool, Since they 've been gone, I 've wished them back. But then It won't do in such things to humor men,— Our Ambrose specially. If let alone He 'd spoil those wenches. But it 's coming on, That storm he said was brewing, sure enough,— Well! what of that? To think what idle stuff Will come into one's head! And here with you I stop, as if I 'd nothing else to do— And they 'll come home, drowned rats. I must be gone To get dry things, and set the kettle on."
His day's work done, three mortal miles and more, Lay between Ambrose and his cottage-door. A weary way, God wot, for weary wight! But yet far off the curling smoke in sight From his own chimney, and his heart felt light. How pleasantly the humble homestead stood, Down the green lane, by sheltering Shirley wood! How sweet the wafting of the evening breeze, In spring-time, from his two old cherry-trees, Sheeted with blossom! And in hot July, From the brown moor-track, shadowless and dry, How grateful the cool covert to regain Of his own avenue,—that shady lane, With the white cottage, in the slanting glow Of sunset glory, gleaming bright below, And Jasmine porch, his rustic portico!
With what a thankful gladness in his face, (Silent heart-homage,—plant of special grace!) At the lane's entrance, slackening oft his pace, Would Ambrose send a loving look before, Conceiting the caged blackbird at the door; The very blackbird strained its little throat, In welcome, with a more rejoicing note; And honest Tinker, dog of doubtful breed, All bristle, back, and tail, but "good at need," Pleasant his greeting to the accustomed ear; But of all welcomes pleasantest, most dear, The ringing voices, like sweet silver bells, Of his two little ones. How fondly swells The father's heart, as, dancing up the lane, Each clasps a hand in her small hand again, And each must tell her tale and "say her say," Impeding as she leads with sweet delay (Childhood's blest thoughtlessness!) his onward way. And when the winter day closed in so fast; Scarce for his task would dreary daylight last; And in all weathers—driving sleet and snow— Home by that bare, bleak moor-track must he go, Darkling and lonely. O, the blessèd sight (His polestar) of that little twinkling light From one small window, through the leafless trees,— Glimmering so fitfully; no eye but his Had spied it so far off. And sure was he, Entering the lane, a steadier beam to see, Ruddy and broad as peat-fed hearth could pour, Streaming to meet him from the open door. Then, though the blackbird's welcome was unheard,— Silenced by winter,—note of summer bird Still hailed him from no mortal fowl alive, But from the cuckoo clock just striking five. And Tinker's ear and Tinker's nose were keen,— Off started he, and then a form was seen Darkening the doorway: and a smaller sprite, And then another, peered into the night, Ready to follow free on Tinker's track, But for the mother's hand that held her back: And yet a moment—a few steps—and there, Pulled o'er the threshold by that eager pair, He sits by his own hearth, in his own chair; Tinker takes post beside with eyes that say, "Master, we've done our business for the day." The kettle sings, the cat in chorus purrs, The busy housewife with her tea-things stirs; The door's made fast, the old stuff curtain drawn; How the hail clatters! Let it clatter on! How the wind raves and rattles! What cares he? Safe housed and warm beneath his own roof-tree, With a wee lassie prattling on each knee.
Such was the hour—hour sacred and apart— Warmed in expectancy the poor man's heart. Summer and winter, as his toil he plied, To him and his the literal doom applied, Pronounced on Adam. But the bread was sweet So earned, for such dear mouths. The weary feet, Hope-shod, stept lightly on the homeward way; So specially it fared with Ambrose Gray That time I tell of. He had worked all day At a great clearing; vigorous stroke on stroke Striking, till, when he stopt, his back seemed broke, And the strong arms dropt nerveless. What of that? There was a treasure hidden in his hat,— A plaything for the young ones. He had found A dormouse nest; the living ball coiled round For its long winter sleep; and all his thought, As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of naught But the glad wonderment in Jenny's eyes, And graver Lizzy's quieter surprise, When he should yield, by guess and kiss and prayer Hard won, the frozen captive to their care.
'T was a wild evening,—wild and rough. "I knew," Thought Ambrose, "those unlucky gulls spoke true,— And Gaffer Chewton never growls for naught,— I should be mortal 'mazed now if I thought My little maids were not safe housed before That blinding hail-storm,—ay, this hour and more,— Unless by that old crazy bit of board, They 've not passed dry-foot over Shallow ford, That I 'll be bound for,—swollen as it must be— Well! if my mistress had been ruled by me—" But, checking the half-thought as heresy, He looked out for the Home Star. There it shone, And with a gladdened heart he hastened on.
He 's in the lane again,—and there below, Streams from the open doorway that red glow, Which warms him but to look at. For his prize Cautious he feels,—all safe and snug it lies,— "Down, Tinker! down, old boy!—not quite so free,— The thing thou sniffest is no game for thee.— But what 's the meaning? no lookout to-night! No living soul astir! Pray God, all 's right! Who 's flittering round the peat-stack in such weather? Mother!" you might have felled him with a feather, When the short answer to his loud "Hillo!" And hurried question, "Are they come?" was "No."
To throw his tools down, hastily unhook The old cracked lantern from its dusty nook, And, while he lit it, speak a cheering word, That almost choked him, and was scarcely heard, Was but a moment's act, and he was gone To where a fearful foresight led him on. Passing a neighbor's cottage in his way,— Mark Fenton's,—him he took with short delay To bear him company,—for who could say What need might be? They struck into the track The children should have taken coming back From school that day; and many a call and shout Into the pitchy darkness they sent out, And, by the lantern light, peered all about, In every roadside thicket, hole, nook, Till suddenly—as nearing now the brook— Something brushed past them. That was Tinker's bark,— Unheeded, he had followed in the dark, Close at his master's heels; but, swift as light, Darted before them now. "Be sure he 's right,— He 's on the track," cried Ambrose. "Hold the light Low down,—he 's making for the water. Hark! I know that whine,—the old dog 's found them, Mark." So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on Toward the old crazy foot-bridge. It was gone! And all his dull contracted light could show Was the black void and dark swollen stream below. "Yet there 's life somewhere,—more than Tinker's whine,— That 's sure," said Mark. "So, let the lantern shine Down yonder. There's the dog,—and, hark!" "O dear!" And a low sob came faintly on the ear, Mocked by the sobbing gust. Down, quick as thought, Into the stream leapt Ambrose, where he caught Fast hold of something,—a dark huddled heap,— Half in the water, where 't was scarce knee-deep For a tall man, and half above it, propped By some old ragged side-piles, that had stopt Endways the broken plank, when it gave way With the two little ones that luckless day! "My babes!—my lambkins!" was the father's cry. One little voice made answer, "Here am I!" 'T was Lizzy's. There she crouched with face as white, More ghastly by the flickering lantern-light Than sheeted corpse. The pale blue lips drawn tight, Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth, And eyes on some dark object underneath, Washed by the turbid water, fixed as stone,— One arm and hand stretched out, and rigid grown, Grasping, as in the death-gripe, Jenny's frock. There she lay drowned. Could he sustain that shock, The doting father? Where 's the unriven rock Can bide such blasting in its flintiest part As that soft sentient thing,—the human heart?
They lifted her from out her watery bed,— Its covering gone, the lovely little head Hung like a broken snowdrop all aside; And one small hand,—the mother's shawl was tied, Leaving that free, about the child's small form, As was her last injunction—"fast and warm"— Too well obeyed,—too fast! A fatal hold Affording to the scrag by a thick fold That caught and pinned her in the river's bed, While through the reckless water overhead Her life-breath bubbled up. "She might have lived, Struggling like Lizzy," was the thought that rived The wretched mother's heart, when she knew all, "But for my foolishness about that shawl! And Master would have kept them back the day; But I was wilful,—driving them away In such wild weather!" Thus the tortured heart Unnaturally against itself takes part, Driving the sharp edge deeper of a woe Too deep already. They had raised her now, And parting the wet ringlets from her brow, To that, and the cold cheek, and lips as cold, The father glued his warm ones, ere they rolled Once more the fatal shawl—her winding-sheet— About the precious clay. One heart still beat, Warmed by his heart's blood. To his only child He turned him, but her piteous moaning mild Pierced him afresh,—and now she knew him not. "Mother!" she murmured, "who says I forgot? Mother! indeed, indeed, I kept fast hold, And tied the shawl quite close—she can't be cold— But she won't move—we slipt—I don't know how— But I held on—and I'm so weary now— And it's so dark and cold! O dear! O dear!— And she won't move;—if daddy was but here!"
————
Poor lamb! she wandered in her mind, 't was clear; But soon the piteous murmur died away, And quiet in her father's arms she lay,— They their dead burden had resigned, to take The living, so near lost. For her dear sake, And one at home, he armed himself to bear His misery like a man,—with tender care Doffing his coat her shivering form to fold (His neighbor bearing that which felt no cold), He clasped her close, and so, with little said, Homeward they bore the living and the dead.
From Ambrose Gray's poor cottage all that night Shone fitfully a little shifting light, Above, below,—for all were watchers there, Save one sound sleeper. Her, parental care, Parental watchfulness, availed not now. But in the young survivor's throbbing brow, And wandering eyes, delirious fever burned; And all night long from side to side she turned, Piteously plaining like a wounded dove, With now and then the murmur, "She won't move." And lo! when morning, as in mockery, bright Shone on that pillow, passing strange the sight,— That young head's raven hair was streaked with white!
No idle fiction this. Such things have been, We know. And now I tell what I have seen.
Life struggled long with death in that small frame, But it was strong, and conquered. All became As it had been with the poor family,— All, saving that which nevermore might be: There was an empty place,—they were but three.
"The old sea-wall (he cryed) is downe! The rising tide comes on apace." —Jean Ingelow.— From a photogravure by Braun, Clement & Co., after painting by G. Haquette.
HIGH-TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. [TIME, 1571.]
THE old mayor climbed the belfry tower, The ringers rang by two, by three; "Pull! if ye never pulled before; Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. "Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells! Ply all your changes, all your swells! Play uppe The Brides of Enderby!"
Men say it was a "stolen tyde,"— The Lord that sent it, he knows all, But in myne ears doth still abide The message that the bells let fall; And there was naught of strange, beside The flights of mews and peewits pied, By millions crouched on the old sea-wall.
I sat and spun within the doore; My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes: The level sun, like ruddy ore, Lay sinking in the barren skies; And dark against day's golden death She moved where Lindis wandereth,— My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.
"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Ere the early dews were falling, Farre away I heard her song. "Cusha! Cusha!" all along; Where the reedy Lindis floweth, Floweth, floweth, From the meads where melick groweth, Faintly came her milking-song.
"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, "For the dews will soone be falling; Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow! Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow! Come uppe, Whitefoot! come uppe, Lightfoot! Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow! Come uppe, Jetty! rise and follow; From the clovers lift your head! Come uppe, Whitefoot! come uppe, Lightfoot! Come uppe, Jetty! rise and follow, Jetty, to the milking-shed."
If it be long—ay, long ago— When I beginne to think howe long, Againe I hear the Lindis flow, Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong; And all the aire, it seemeth mee, Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), That ring the tune of Enderby. Alle fresh the level pasture lay, And not a shadowe mote be seene, Save where, full fyve good miles away, The steeple towered from out the greene. And lo! the great bell farre and wide Was heard in all the country side That Saturday at eventide.
The swannerds, where their sedges are, Moved on in sunset's golden breath; The shepherde lads I heard afarre, And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth; Till, floating o'er the grassy sea, Came downe that kyndly message free, The Brides of Mavis Enderby.
Then some looked uppe into the sky, And all along where Lindis flows To where the goodly vessels lie, And where the lordly steeple shows. They sayde, "And why should this thing be, What danger lowers by land or sea? They ring the tune of Enderby.
"For evil news from Mablethorpe, Of pyrate galleys, warping down,— For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, They have not spared to wake the towne; But while the west bin red to see, And storms be none, and pyrates flee, Why ring The Brides of Enderby?"
I looked without, and lo! my sonne Came riding downe with might and main; He raised a shout as he drew on, Till all the welkin rang again: "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.)
"The olde sea-wall (he cryed) is downe! The rising tide comes on apace; And boats adrift in yonder towne Go sailing uppe the market-place!" He shook as one that looks on death: "God save you, mother!" straight he sayth; "Where is my wife, Elizabeth?"
"Good sonne, where Lindis winds away With her two bairns I marked her long; And ere yon tells beganne to play, Afar I heard her milking-song." He looked across the grassy sea, To right, to left, Ho, Enderby! They rang The Brides of Enderby.
With that he cried and beat his breast; For lo! along the river's bed A mighty eygre reared his crest, And uppe the Lindis raging sped. It swept with thunderous noises loud,— Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, Or like a demon in a shroud.
And rearing Lindis, backward pressed, Shook all her trembling bankes amaine; Then madly at the eygre's breast Flung uppe her weltering walls again. Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout,— Then beaten foam flew round about,— Then all the mighty floods were out.
So farre, so fast, the eygre drave, The heart had hardly time to beat Before a shallow seething wave Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet: The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee,— And all the world was in the sea.
Upon the roofe we sate that night; The noise of bells went sweeping by; I marked the lofty beacon light Stream from the church-tower, red and high,— A lurid mark, and dread to see; And awsome bells they were to mee, That in the dark rang Enderby.
They rang the sailor lads to guide, From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; And I,—my sonne was at my side, And yet the ruddy beacon glowed; And yet he moaned beneath his breath, "O, come in life, or come in death! O lost! my love, Elizabeth!"
And didst thou visit him no more? Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare? The waters laid thee at his doore Ere yet the early dawn was clear: Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.
That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea,— fatal ebbe and flow, alas! To manye more than myne and mee; But each will mourne his own (she sayth) And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.
I shall never hear her more By the reedy Lindis shore, "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Ere the early dews be falling; I shall never hear her song, "Cusha! Cusha!" all along, Where the sunny Lindis floweth, Goeth, floweth, From the meads where melick groweth, Where the water, winding down, Onward floweth to the town.
I shall never see her more, Where the reeds and rushes quiver, Shiver, quiver, Stand beside the sobbing river,— Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling, To the sandy, lonesome shore; I shall never hear her calling, "Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow! Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow! Come uppe, Whitefoot! come uppe, Lightfoot! Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow! Come uppe, Lightfoot! rise and follow; Lightfoot! Whitefoot! From your clovers lift the head; Come uppe, Jetty! follow, follow, Jetty, to the milking-shed!"
JEAN INGELOW.
RIZPAH. 17—. I.
Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wind over land and sea— And Willy's voice in the wind, "O mother, come out to me." Why should he call me to-night, when he knows that I cannot go? For the downs are as bright as day, and the full moon stares at the snow.
II. We should be seen, my dear; they would spy us out of the town. The loud black nights for us, and the storm rushing over the down, When I cannot see my own hand, but am led by the creak of the chain, And grovel and grope for my son till I find myself drenched with the rain.
III. Anything fallen again? nay—what was there left to fall? I have taken them home, I have numbered the bones, I have hidden them all. What am I saying? and what are you? do you come as a spy? Falls? what falls? who knows? As the tree falls so must it lie.
IV. Who let her in? how long has she been? you—what have you heard? Why did you sit so quiet? you never have spoken a word. O—to pray with me—yes—a lady—none of their spies— But the night has crept into my heart, and begun to darken my eyes.
V. Ah—you, that have lived so soft, what should you know of the night, The blast and the burning shame and the bitter frost and the fright? I have done it, while you were asleep—you were only made for the day. I have gathered my baby together—and now you may go your way.
VI. Nay—for it's kind of you, Madam, to sit by an old dying wife. But say nothing hard of my boy, I have only an hour of life. I kissed my boy in the prison, before he went out to die. "They dared me to do it," he said, and he never has told me a lie. I whipt him for robbing an orchard once when he was but a child— "The farmer dared me to do it," he said; he was always so wild— And idle—and couldn't be idle—my Willy—he never could rest. The King should have made him a soldier, he would have been one of his best.
VII. But he lived with a lot of wild mates, and they never would let him be good; They swore that he dare not rob the mail, and he swore that he would: And he took no life, but he took one purse, and when all was done He flung it among his fellows—I'll none of it, said my son.
VIII. I came into court to the Judge and the lawyers. I told them my tale, God's own truth—but they killed him, they killed him for robbing the mail. They hanged him in chains for a show—we had always borne a good name— To be hanged for a thief—and then put away—isn't that enough shame? Dust to dust—low down—let us hide! but they set him so high That all the ships of the world could stare at him, passing by. God 'ill pardon the hell-black raven and horrible fowls of the air, But not the black heart of the lawyer who killed him and hanged him there.
IX. And the jailer forced me away. I had bid him my last good-bye; They had fastened the door of his cell. "O mother!" I heard him cry. I couldn't get back tho' I tried, he had something further to say, And now I never shall know it. The jailer forced me away.
X. Then since I couldn't but hear that cry of my boy that was dead, They seized me and shut me up: they fastened me down on my bed. "Mother, O mother!"—he called in the dark to me year after year— They beat me for that, they beat me—you know that I couldn't but hear; And then at the last they found I had grown so stupid and still They let me abroad again—but the creatures had worked their will.
XI. Flesh of my flesh was gone, but bone of my bone was left— I stole them all from the lawyers—and you, will you call it a theft?— My baby, the bones that had sucked me, the bones that had laughed and had cried— Theirs? O no! they are mine—not theirs—they had moved in my side.
XII. Do you think I was scared by the bones? I kissed 'em, I buried 'em all— I can't dig deep, I am old—in the night by the churchyard wall. My Willy 'ill rise up whole when the trumpet of judgment 'ill sound, But I charge you never to say that I laid him in holy ground.
XIII. They would scratch him up—they would hang him again on the cursèd tree. Sin? O yes—we are sinners, I know—let all that be, And read me a Bible verse of the Lord's good will toward men— "Full of compassion and mercy, the Lord"—let me hear it again; "Full of compassion and mercy—long-suffering." Yes, O yes! For the lawyer is born but to murder—the Saviour lives but to bless. He'll never put on the black cap except for the worst of the worst, And the first may be last—I have heard it in church—and the last may be first. Suffering—O long-suffering—yes, as the Lord must know, Year after year in the mist and the wind and the shower and the snow.
XIV. Heard, have you? what? they have told you he never repented his sin. How do they know it? are they his mother? are you of his kin? Heard! have you ever heard, when the storm on the downs began, The wind that 'ill wail like a child and the sea that 'ill moan like a man?
XV. Election, Election and Reprobation—it's all very well. But I go to-night to my boy, and I shall not find him in Hell. For I cared so much for my boy that the Lord has looked into my care, And He means me I'm sure to be happy with Willy, I know not where.
XVI. And if he be lost—but to save my soul, that is all your desire: Do you think that I care for my soul if my boy be gone to the fire? I have been with God in the dark—go, go, you may leave me alone— You never have borne a child—you are just as hard as a stone.
XVII. Madam, I beg your pardon! I think that you mean to be kind, But I cannot hear what you say for my Willy's voice in the wind— The snow and the sky so bright—he used but to call in the dark, And he calls to me now from the church and not from the gibbet—for hark! Nay—you can hear it yourself—it is coming—shaking the walls— Willy—the moon's in a cloud—Good night. I am going. He calls.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.
'T was in the prime of summer time, An evening calm and cool, And four-and-twenty happy boys Came bounding out of school; There were some that ran, and some that leapt Like troutlets in a pool.
Away they sped with gamesome minds And souls untouched by sin; To a level mead they came, and there They drave the wickets in: Pleasantly shone the setting sun Over the town of Lynn.
Like sportive deer they coursed about, And shouted as they ran. Turning to mirth all things of earth As only boyhood can; But the usher sat remote from all, A melancholy man!
His hat was off, his vest apart, To catch heaven's blessèd breeze; For a burning thought was in his brow, And his bosom ill at ease; So he leaned his head on his hands, and read The book between his knees.
Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er, Nor ever glanced aside,— For the peace of his soul he read that book In the golden eventide; Much study had made him very lean, And pale, and leaden-eyed.
At last he shut the ponderous tome; With a fast and fervent grasp He strained the dusky covers close, And fixed the brazen hasp: "O God! could I so close my mind, And clasp it with a clasp!"
Then leaping on his feet upright, Some moody turns he took,— Now up the mead, then down the mead, And past a shady nook,— And, lo! he saw a little boy That pored upon a book.
"My gentle lad, what is 't you read,— Romance or fairy fable? Or is it some historic page, Of kings and crowns unstable?" The young boy gave an upward glance,— "It is 'The Death of Abel.'"
The usher took six hasty strides, As smit with sudden pain,— Six hasty strides beyond the place, Then slowly back again; And down he sat beside the lad, And talked with him of Cain;
And, long since then, of bloody men, Whose deeds tradition saves; And lonely folk cut off unseen, And hid in sudden graves; And horrid stabs, in groves forlorn; And murders done in caves;
And how the sprites of injured men Shriek upward from the sod; Ay, how the ghostly hand will point To show the burial clod; And unknown facts of guilty acts Are seen in dreams from God.
He told how murderers walk the earth Beneath the curse of Cain,— With crimson clouds before their eyes, And flames about their brain; For blood has left upon their souls Its everlasting stain!
"And well," quoth he, "I know for truth Their pangs must be extreme— Woe, woe, unutterable woe!— Who spill life's sacred stream. For why? Methought, last night I wrought A murder, in a dream!
"One that had never done me wrong,— A feeble man and old; I led him to a lonely field,— The moon shone clear and cold: Now here, said I, this man shall die, And I will have his gold!
"Two sudden blows with a raggèd stick, And one with a heavy stone, One hurried gash with a hasty knife,— And then the deed was done: There was nothing lying at my feet But lifeless flesh and bone!
"Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, That could not do me ill; And yet I feared him all the more For lying there so still: There was a manhood in his look That murder could not kill!
"And, lo! the universal air Seemed lit with ghastly flame,— Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes Were looking down in blame; I took the dead man by his hand, And called upon his name.
"O God! it made me quake to see Such sense within the slain; But, when I touched the lifeless clay, The blood gushed out amain! For every clot a burning spot Was scorching in my brain!
"My head was like an ardent coal, My heart as solid ice; My wretched, wretched soul, I knew, Was at the Devil's price. A dozen times I groaned,—the dead Had never groaned but twice.
"And now, from forth the frowning sky, From heaven's topmost height, I heard a voice,—the awful voice Of the blood-avenging sprite: 'Thou guilty man! take up thy dead, And hide it from my sight!'
"And I took the dreary body up, And cast it in a stream,— The sluggish water black as ink, The depth was so extreme:— My gentle boy, remember, this Is nothing but a dream!
"Down went the corse with a hollow plunge, And vanished in the pool; Anon I cleansed my bloody hands, And washed my forehead cool, And sat among the urchins young, That evening, in the school.
"O Heaven! to think of their white souls, And mine so black and grim! I could not share in childish prayer, Nor join in evening hymn; Like a devil of the pit I seemed, Mid holy cherubim!
"And peace went with them, one and all, And each calm pillow spread; But Guilt was my grim chamberlain, That lighted me to bed, And drew my midnight curtains round With fingers bloody red!
"All night I lay in agony, In anguish dark and deep; My fevered eyes I dared not close, But stared aghast at Sleep; For Sin had rendered unto her The keys of hell to keep!
"All night I lay in agony, From weary chime to chime; With one besetting horrid hint That racked me all the time,— A mighty yearning, like the first Fierce impulse unto crime,—
"One stern tyrannic thought, that made All other thoughts its slave! Stronger and stronger every pulse Did that temptation crave,— Still urging me to go and see The dead man in his grave!
"Heavily I rose up, as soon As light was in the sky, And sought the black accursèd pool With a wild, misgiving eye; And I saw the dead in the river-bed, For the faithless stream was dry.
"Merrily rose the lark, and shook The dew-drop from its wing; But I never marked its morning flight, I never heard it sing, For I was stooping once again Under the horrid thing.
"With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, I took him up and ran; There was no time to dig a grave Before the day began,— In a lonesome wood with heaps of leaves, I hid the murdered man!
"And all that day I read in school, But my thought was otherwhere; As soon as the midday task was done, In secret I was there,— And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, And still the corse was bare!
"Then down I cast me on my face, And first began to weep, For I knew my secret then was one That earth refused to keep,— Or land or sea, though he should be Ten thousand fathoms deep.
"So wills the fierce avenging sprite, Till blood for blood atones! Ay, though he's buried in a cave, And trodden down with stones, And years have rotted off his flesh,— The world shall see his bones!
"O God! that horrid, horrid dream Besets me now awake! Again—again, with dizzy brain, The human life I take; And my red right hand grows raging hot, Like Cranmer's at the stake.
"And still no peace for the restless clay Will wave or mold allow; The horrid thing pursues my soul,— It stands before me now!" The fearful boy looked up, and saw Huge drops upon his brow.
That very night, while gentle sleep The urchin's eyelids kissed, Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn Through the cold and heavy mist; And Eugene Aram walked between, With gyves upon his wrist.
IN THE ENGINE-SHED.
Through air made heavy with vapors murk, O'er slack and cinders in heaps and holes, The engine-driver came to his work, Burly and bluff as a bag of coals; With a thick gold chain where he bulged the most, And a beard like a brush, and a face like a toast, And a hat half-eaten by fire and frost; And a diamond pin in the folded dirt Of the shawl that served him for collar and shirt. Whenever he harnessed his steed of mettle:— The shovel-fed monster that could not tire, With limbs of steel and entrails of fire; Above us it sang like a tea-time kettle.
He came to his salamander toils In what seemed a devil's cast-off suit, All charred, and discolored with rain and oils, And smeared and sooted from muffler to boot. Some wiping—it struck him—his paws might suffer With a wisp of thread he found on the buffer (The improvement effected was not very great); Then he spat, and passed his pipe to his mate.
And his whole face laughed with an honest mirth, As any extant on this grimy earth, Welcoming me to his murky region; And had you known him, I tell you this— Though your bright hair shiver and sink at its roots, O piano-fingering fellow-collegian— You would have returned no cold salutes To the cheery greeting of old Chris, But locked your hand in the vise of his.
For at night when the sleet-storm shatters and scatters, And clangs on the pane like a pile of fetters, He flies through it all with the world's love-letters: The master of mighty leviathan motions, That make for him storm when the nights are fair, And cook him with fire and carve him with air, While we sleep soft on the carriage cushions, And he looks sharp for the signals, blear-eyed. Often had Chris over England rolled me; You shall hear a story he told me— A dream of his rugged watch unwearied.
THE STORY.
We were driving the down express; Will at the steam, and I at the coal; Over the valleys and villages, Over the marshes and coppices, Over the river, deep and broad; Through the mountain, under the road, Flying along, Tearing along. Thunderbolt engine, swift and strong, Fifty tons she was, whole and sole!
I had been promoted to the express: I warrant I was proud and gay. It was the evening that ended May, And the sky was a glory of tenderness. We were thundering down to a midland town,— It doesn't matter about the name, For we didn't stop there, or anywhere For a dozen miles on either side. Well, as I say, just there you slide, With your steam shut off and your brakes in hand, Down the steepest and longest grade in the land, At a pace that, I promise you, is grand. We were just there with the express, When I caught sight of a girl's white dress On the bank ahead; and as we passed— You have no notion how fast— She sank back scared from our baleful blast.
We were going—a mile and a quarter a minute— With vans and carriages—down the incline! But I saw her face, and the sunshine in it; I looked in her eyes, and she looked in mine As the train went by, like a shot from a mortar: A roaring hell-breath of dust and smoke. And it was a minute before I woke, When she lay behind us—a mile and a quarter.
And the years went on, and the express Leaped in her black resistlessness, Evening by evening, England through.— Will—God rest him!—was found—a mash Of bleeding rags, in a fearful smash He made of Christmas train at Crewe. It chanced I was ill the night of the mess, Or I shouldn't now be here alive; But thereafter, the five o'clock out express, Evening by evening, I used to drive.
And often I saw her: that lady, I mean, That I spoke of before. She often stood Atop of the bank;—it was pretty high, Say, twenty feet, and backed by a wood.— She would pick daisies out of the green To fling down at us as we went by. We had grown to be friends, too, she and I. Though I was a stalwart, grimy chap, And she a lady! I'd wave my cap Evening by evening, when I'd spy That she was there, in the summer air, Watching the sun sink out of the sky.
Oh, I didn't see her every night: Bless you! no; just now and then, And not at all for a twelvemonth quite. Then, one evening, I saw her again, Alone, as ever—but wild and pale— Climbing down on the line, on the very rail, While a light as of hell from our wild wheels broke, Tearing down the slope with their devilish clamors And deafening din, as of giant hammers That smote in a whirlwind of dust and smoke All the instant or so that we sped to meet her. Never, O never, had she seemed sweeter!— I let yell the whistle, reversing the stroke, Down that awful incline; and signalled the guard To put on his brakes at once, and HARD! — Though we couldn't have stopped. We tattered the rail Into splinters and sparks, but without avail. We couldn't stop; and she wouldn't stir, Saving to turn us her eyes, and stretch Her arms to us:—and the desperate wretch I pitied, comprehending her. So the brakes let off, and the steam full again, Sprang down on the lady the terrible train.— She never flinched. We beat her down, And ran on through the lighted length of the town Before we could stop to see what was done.
Yes, I've run over more than one! Full a dozen, I should say; but none That I pitied as I pitied her. If I could have stopped—with all the spur Of the train's weight on, and cannily— But it never would do with a lad like me And she a lady,—or had been.—Sir?— We won't say any more of her; The world is hard. But I'm her friend, Right through—down to the world's end. It is a curl of her sunny hair Set in this locket that I wear; I picked it off the big wheel there.— Time's up, Jack—Stand clear, sir. Yes, We're going out with the express.
REVELRY OF THE DYING.
[Supposed to be written in India, while the plague was raging, and playing havoc among the British residents and troops stationed there.]
We meet 'neath the sounding rafter, And the walls around are bare; As they shout to our peals of laughter, It seems that the dead are there. But stand to your glasses, steady! We drink to our comrades' eyes; Quaff a cup to the dead already— And hurrah for the next that dies!
Not here are the goblets glowing, Not here is the vintage sweet; 'T is cold, as our hearts are growing, And dark as the doom we meet. But stand to your glasses, steady! And soon shall our pulses rise; A cup to the dead already— Hurrah for the next that dies!
Not a sigh for the lot that darkles, Not a tear for the friends that sink; We'll fall, midst the wine-cup's sparkles, As mute as the wine we drink. So stand to your glasses, steady! 'T is this that the respite buys; One cup to the dead already— Hurrah for the next that dies!
Time was when we frowned at others; We thought we were wiser then; Ha! ha! let those think of their mothers, Who hope to see them again. No! stand to your glasses, steady! The thoughtless are here the wise; A cup to the dead already— Hurrah for the next that dies!
There's many a hand that's shaking, There's many a cheek that's sunk; But soon, though our hearts are breaking, They'll burn with the wine we've drunk. So stand to your glasses, steady! 'T is here the revival lies; A cup to the dead already— Hurrah for the next that dies!
There's a mist on the glass congealing, 'T is the hurricane's fiery breath; And thus does the warmth of feeling Turn ice in the grasp of Death. Ho! stand to your glasses, steady! For a moment the vapor flies; A cup to the dead already— Hurrah for the next that dies!
Who dreads to the dust returning? Who shrinks from the sable shore, Where the high and haughty yearning Of the soul shall sting no more! Ho! stand to your glasses, steady! The world is a world of lies; A cup to the dead already— Hurrah for the next that dies!
Cut off from the land that bore us, Betrayed by the land we find, Where the brightest have gone before us, And the dullest remain behind— Stand, stand to your glasses, steady! 'T is all we have left to prize; A cup to the dead already— And hurrah for the next that dies!
BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING.
THE DRUMMER-BOY'S BURIAL.
ALL day long the storm of battle through the startled valley swept; All night long the stars in heaven o'er the slain sad vigils kept.
O, the ghastly upturned faces gleaming whitely through the night! O, the heaps of mangled corses in that dim sepulchral light!
One by one the pale stars faded, and at length the morning broke; But not one of all the sleepers on that field of death awoke.
Slowly passed the golden hours of that long bright summer day, And upon that field of carnage still the dead unburied lay.
Lay there stark and cold, but pleading with a dumb, unceasing prayer, For a little dust to hide them from the staring sun and air.
But the foeman held possession of that hard-won battle-plain, In unholy wrath denying even burial to our slain.
Once again the night dropped round them,—night so holy and so calm That the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like the sound of prayer or psalm.
On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all the rest, Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly folded on his breast.
Death had touched him very gently, and he lay as if in sleep; Even his mother scarce had shuddered at that slumber calm and deep.
For a smile of wondrous sweetness lent a radiance to the face, And the hand of cunning sculptor could have added naught of grace
To the marble limbs so perfect in their passionless repose, Robbed of all save matchless purity by hard, unpitying foes.
And the broken drum beside him all his life's short story told: How he did his duty bravely till the death-tide o'er him rolled.
Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem of stars, While right upward in the zenith hung the fiery planet Mars.
Hark! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of voices whispering low, Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the brooklet's murmuring flow?
Clinging closely to each other, striving never to look round As they passed with silent shudder the pale corses on the ground,
Came two little maidens,—sisters, with a light and hasty tread, And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, half of dread.
And they did not pause nor falter till, with throbbing hearts, they stood Where the drummer-boy was lying in that partial solitude.
They had brought some simple garments from their wardrobe's scanty store, And two heavy iron shovels in their slender hands they bore.
Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the pitying tears, For they had no time for weeping, nor for any girlish fears.
And they robed the icy body, while no glow of maiden shame Changed the pallor of their foreheads to a flush of lambent flame.
For their saintly hearts yearned o'er it in that hour of sorest need, And they felt that Death was holy, and it sanctified the deed.
But they smiled and kissed each other when their new strange task was o'er, And the form that lay before them its unwonted garments wore.
Then with slow and weary labor a small grave they hollowed out, And they lined it with the withered grass and leaves that lay about.
But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy work was done, And in crimson pomp the morning heralded again the sun.
Gently then those little maidens—they were children of our foes— Laid the body of our drummer-boy to undisturbed repose.
RAMON. REFUGIO MINE, NORTHERN MEXICO
Drunk and senseless in his place, Prone and sprawling on his face, More like brute than any man Alive or dead,— By his great pump out of gear, Lay the peon engineer, Waking only just to hear, Overhead, Angry tones that called his name, Oaths and cries of bitter blame,— Woke to hear all this, and waking, turned and fled!
"To the man who'll bring to me," Cried Intendant Harry Lee,— Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,— "Bring the sot alive or dead, I will give to him," he said, "Fifteen hundred pesos down, Just to set the rascal's crown Underneath this heel of mine: Since but death Deserves the man whose deed, Be it vice or want of heed, Stops the pumps that give us breath,— Stops the pumps that suck the death From the poisoned lower level of the mine!"
No one answered, for a cry From the shaft rose up on high; And shuffling, scrambling, tumbling from below, Came the miners each, the bolder Mounting on the weaker's shoulder, Grappling, clinging to their hold or Letting go, As the weaker gasped and fell From the ladder to the well,— To the poisoned pit of hell Down below!
"To the man who sets them free," Cried the foreman, Harry Lee,— Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,— "Brings them out and sets them free, I will give that man," said he, "Twice that sum, who with a rope Face to face with death shall cope: Let him come who dares to hope!" "Hold your peace!" some one replied, Standing by the foreman's side; "There has one already gone, whoe'er he be!"
Then they held their breath with awe, Pulling on the rope, and saw Fainting figures reappear, On the black ropes swinging clear, Fastened by some skilful hand from below; Till a score the level gained, And but one alone remained,— He the hero and the last, He whose skilful hand made fast The long line that brought them back to hope and cheer!
Haggard, gasping, down dropped he At the feet of Harry Lee,— Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine; "I have come," he gasped, "to claim Both rewards, Señior,—my name Is Ramon! I'm the drunken engineer,— I'm the coward, Señior—" Here He fell over, by that sign Dead as stone!
BRET HARTE.
AT THE CEDARS.
You had two girls—Baptiste— One is Virginie— Hold hard—Baptiste! Listen to me.
The whole drive was jammed, In that bend at the Cedars; The rapids were dammed With the logs tight rammed And crammed; you might know The devil had clinched them below.
We worked three days—not a budge! "She's as tight as a wedge On the ledge," Says our foreman:
"Mon Dieu! boys, look here, We must get this thing clear." He cursed at the men, And we went for it then; With our cant-dogs arow, We just gave he-yo-ho, When she gave a big shove From above.
The gang yelled, and tore For the shore; The logs gave a grind, Like a wolf's jaws behind, And as quick as a flash, With a shove and a crash, They were down in a mash. But I and ten more, All but Isaàc Dufour, Were ashore.
He leaped on a log in the front of the rush, And shot out from the bind While the jam roared behind; As he floated along He balanced his pole And tossed us a song. But, just as we cheered, Up darted a log from the bottom, Leaped thirty feet fair and square, And came down on his own.
He went up like a block With the shock; And when he was there, In the air, Kissed his hand To the land. When he dropped My heart stopped, For the first log had caught him And crushed him; When he rose in his place There was blood on his face.
There were some girls, Baptiste, Picking berries on the hillside, Where the river curls, Baptiste, You know,—on the still side. One was down by the water, She saw Isaàc Fall back.
She did not scream, Baptiste, She launched her canoe; It did seem, Baptiste, That she wanted to die too, For before you could think The birch cracked like a shell In the rush of hell, And I saw them both sink—
Baptiste! He had two girls, One is Virginie; What God calls the other Is not known to me.
THE SANDS O' DEE.
"O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands o' Dee!" The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, And all alone went she.
The creeping tide came up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see; The blinding mist came down and hid the land: And never home came she.
"O, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair,— A tress o' golden hair, O' drownèd maiden's hair,— Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, Among the stakes on Dee."
They rowed her in across the rolling foam,— The cruel, crawling foam, The cruel, hungry foam,— To her grave beside the sea; But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands o' Dee.
ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED; 1782.
Toll for the brave,— The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore.
Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel, And laid her on her side.
A land-breeze shook the shrouds, And she was overset; Down went the Royal George, With all her crew complete.
Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea-fight is fought, His work of glory done.
It was not in the battle; No tempest gave the shock; She sprang no fatal leak; She ran upon no rock.
His sword was in its sheath, His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men.
Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes.
Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again, Full charged with England's thunder, And plough the distant main.
But Kempenfelt is gone; His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more.
WILLIAM COWPER.
THE THREE FISHERS.
Three fishers went sailing out into the west,— Out into the west as the sun went down; Each thought of the woman who loved him the best, And the children stood watching them out of the town; For men must work, and women must weep; And there's little to earn, and many to keep, Though the harbor bar be moaning.
Three wives sat up in the light-house tower, And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and brown; But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbor bar be moaning.
Three corpses lay out on the shining sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are watching and wringing their hands. For those who will never come back to the town; For men must work, and women must weep,— And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep,— And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.
CHARLES KINGSLEY.
CASABIANCA.
[Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son of the Admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the Battle of the Nile) after the ship had taken fire and all the guns had been abandoned, and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder.]
The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but him had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A proud though childlike form.
THE BATTLE OF THE NILE "There came a burst of thunder-sound; The boy—Oh! where was he? Ask of the winds that far around With fragments strewed the sea." Felicia Hemans. From an engraving after the painting by George Arnald, A. R. A.
———— The flames rolled on; he would not go Without his father's word; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud, "Say, father, say, If yet my task be done!" He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son.
"Speak, father!" once again he cried, "If I may yet be gone!" And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair, And looked from that lone post of death In still yet brave despair;
And shouted but once more aloud, "My father! must I stay?" While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child, Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound; The boy,—Oh! where was he? Ask of the winds, that far around With fragments strewed the sea,—
With shroud and mast and pennon fair, That well had borne their part,— But the noblest thing that perished there Was that young, faithful heart.
FELICIA HEMANS.
THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS.
It was the schooner Hesperus That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughter, To bear him company.
Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, That ope in the month of May.
The skipper he stood beside the helm; His pipe was in his mouth; And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke, now west, now south.
Then up and spake an old sailor, Had sailed the Spanish main: "I pray thee, put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane.
"Last night the moon had a golden ring, And to-night no moon we see!" The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he.
Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the northeast; The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast.
Down came the storm, and smote amain The vessel in its strength; She shuddered and paused like a frighted steed, Then leaped her cable's length.
"Come hither! come hither my little daughter, And do not tremble so; 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.
"O father! I hear the church-bells ring; Oh say, what may it be?" "'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!" And he steered for the open sea.
"O father! I hear the sound of guns; Oh say, what may it be?" "Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!"
"O father! I see a gleaming light! Oh say, what may it be?" But the father answered never a word— A frozen corpse was he.
Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow On his fixed and glassy eyes.
Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That savèd 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 mast 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!
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
THE SECOND MATE.
"Ho, there! Fisherman, hold your hand! Tell me, what is that far away,— There, where over the isle of sand Hangs the mist-cloud sullen and gray? See! it rocks with a ghastly life, Rising and rolling through clouds of spray, Right in the midst of the breakers' strife,— Tell me what is it, Fisherman, pray?"
"That, good sir, was a steamer stout As ever paddled around Cape Race; And many's the wild and stormy bout She had with the winds, in that self-same place; But her time was come; and at ten o'clock Last night she struck on that lonesome shore; And her sides were gnawed by the hidden rock, And at dawn this morning she was no more."
"Come, as you seem to know, good man, The terrible fate of this gallant ship, Tell me about her all that you can; And here's my flask to moisten your lip. Tell me how many she had aboard,— Wives, and husbands, and lovers true,— How did it fare with her human hoard? Lost she many, or lost she few?"
"Master, I may not drink of your flask, Already too moist I feel my lip; But I'm ready to do what else you ask, And spin you my yarn about the ship. 'Twas ten o'clock, as I said, last night, When she struck the breakers and went ashore; And scarce had broken the morning's light When she sank in twelve feet of water or more.
"But long ere this they knew her doom, And the captain called all hands to prayer; And solemnly over the ocean's boom Their orisons wailed on the troublous air. And round about the vessel there rose Tall plumes of spray as white as snow, Like angels in their ascension clothes, Waiting for those who prayed below.
"So these three hundred people clung As well as they could, to spar and rope; With a word of prayer upon every tongue, Nor on any face a glimmer of hope. But there was no blubbering weak and wild,— Of tearful faces I saw but one, A rough old salt, who cried like a child, And not for himself, but the captain's son.
"The captain stood on the quarter-deck, Firm but pale with trumpet in hand; Sometimes he looked at the breaking wreck, Sometimes he sadly looked to land; And often he smiled to cheer the crew— But, Lord! the smile was terrible grim— Till over the quarter a huge sea flew; And that was the last they saw of him.
"I saw one young fellow with his bride, Standing amidships upon the wreck; His face was white as the boiling tide, And she was clinging about his neck. And I saw them try to say good-bye, But neither could hear the other speak; So they floated away through the sea to die— Shoulder to shoulder and cheek to cheek.
"And there was a child, but eight at best, Who went his way in a sea she shipped, All the while holding upon his breast A little pet parrot whose wings were clipped. And, as the boy and the bird went by, Swinging away on a tall wave's crest, They were gripped by a man, with a drowning cry, And together the three went down to rest.
"And so the crew went one by one, Some with gladness, and few with fear,— Cold and hardship such work had done That few seemed frightened when death was near. Thus every soul on board went down,— Sailor and passenger, little and great; The last that sank was a man of my town, A capital swimmer,—the second mate."
"Now, lonely fisherman, who are you That say you saw this terrible wreck? How do I know what you say is true, When every mortal was swept from the deck? Where were you in that hour of death? How did you learn what you relate?" His answer came in an under-breath "Master, I was the second mate!"
A SEA STORY
Silence. A while ago Shrieks went up piercingly; But now is the ship gone down; Good ship, well manned, was she. There's a raft that's a chance of life for one, This day upon the sea.
A chance for one of two Young, strong, are he and he, Just in the manhood prime, The comelier, verily, For the wrestle with wind and weather and wave, In the life upon the sea.
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.
After a life-photograph by Sarony, New York.
————
One of them has a wife And little children three; Two that can toddle and lisp, And a suckling on the knee: Naked they'll go, and hunger sore, If he be lost at sea.
One has a dream of home, A dream that well may be: He never has breathed it yet; She never has known it, she. But some one will be sick at heart If he be lost at sea.
"Wife and kids at home!— Wife, kids, nor home has he!— Give us a chance, Bill!" Then, "All right, Jem!" Quietly A man gives up his life for a man, This day upon the sea.
EMILY HENRIETTA HICKEY.