ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS

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A Series of English Texts, edited for use in Elementary and Secondary Schools, with Critical Introductions, Notes, etc.

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Addison's Sir Roger de Coverley Andersen's Fairy Tales Arabian Nights' Entertainments Arnold's Sohrab and Rustum Austen's Pride and Prejudice Bacon's Essays Bible (Memorable Passages from) Blackmore's Lorna Doone Browning's Shorter Poems Browning, Mrs., Poems (Selected) Bryant's Thanatopsis, etc Bulwer's Last Days of Pompeii Bunyan's The Pilgrim's Progress Burke's Speech on Conciliation Burns' Poems (Selections from) Byron's Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Byron's Shorter Poems Carlyle's Essay on Burns Carlyle's Heroes and Hero Worship Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland (Illustrated) Chaucer's Prologue and Knight's Tale Church's The Story of the Iliad Church's The Story of the Odyssey Coleridge's The Ancient Mariner Cooper's The Deerslayer Cooper's The Last of the Mohicans Cooper's The Spy Dana's Two Years Before the Mast Defoe's Robinson Crusoe De Quincey's Confessions of an English Opium-Eater De Quincey's Joan of Arc, and The English Mail-Coach Dickens' A Christmas Carol, and The Cricket on the Hearth Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities Dryden's Palamon and Arcite Early American Orations, 1760-1824 Edwards' (Jonathan) Sermons Eliot's Silas Marner Emerson's Essays Emerson's Early Poems Emerson's Representative Men English Narrative Poems Epoch-making Papers in U. S. History Franklin's Autobiography Gaskell's Cranford Goldsmith's The Deserted Village, She Stoops to Conquer, and The Good-natured Man Goldsmith's The Vicar of Wakefield Gray's Elegy, etc., and Cowper's John Gilpin, etc Grimm's Fairy Tales Hawthorne's Grandfather's Chair Hawthorne's Mosses from an Old Manse Hawthorne's Tanglewood Tales Hawthorne's The House of the Seven Gables Hawthorne's Twice-told Tales (Selections from) Hawthorne's Wonder-Book Holmes' Poems Homer's Iliad (Translated) Homer's Odyssey (Translated) Hughes' Tom Brown's School Days Huxley's Autobiography and Lay Sermons Irving's Life of Goldsmith Irving's Knickerbocker Irving's The Alhambra Irving's Sketch Book Irving's Tales of a Traveller Keary's Heroes of Asgard Kingsley's The Heroes Lamb's The Essays of Elia Lincoln's Inaugurals and Speeches Longfellow's Evangeline Longfellow's Hiawatha Longfellow's Miles Standish Longfellow's Tales of a Wayside Inn Lowell's The Vision of Sir Launfal Macaulay's Essay on Addison Macaulay's Essay on Hastings Macaulay's Essay on Lord Clive Macaulay's Essay on Milton Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome Macaulay's Life of Samuel Johnson Milton's Comus and Other Poems Malory's Le Morte Darthur Milton's Paradise Lost, Books I. and II Old English Ballads Old Testament (Selections from) Out of the Northland Palgrave's Golden Treasury Parkman's Oregon Trail Plutarch's Lives (Cæsar, Brutus, and Mark Antony) Poe's Poems Poe's Prose Tales (Selections from) Pope's Homer's Iliad Pope's The Rape of the Lock Ruskin's Sesame and Lilies Ruskin's The Crown of Wild Olive and Queen of the Air Scott's Ivanhoe Scott's Kenilworth Scott's Lady of the Lake Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel Scott's Marmion Scott's Quentin Durward Scott's The Talisman Shakespeare's As You Like It Shakespeare's Hamlet Shakespeare's Henry V Shakespeare's Julius Cæsar Shakespeare's King Lear Shakespeare's Macbeth Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice Shakespeare's Richard II Shakespeare's The Tempest Shakespeare's Twelfth Night Shelley and Keats: Poems Sheridan's The Rivals and The School for Scandal Southern Poets: Selections Southern Orators: Selections Spenser's Faerie Queene, Book I Stevenson's Kidnapped Stevenson's The Master of Ballantrae Stevenson's Travels with a Donkey, and An Inland Voyage Stevenson's Treasure Island Swift's Gulliver's Travels Tennyson's Idylls of the King Tennyson's The Princess Tennyson's Shorter Poems Thackeray's English Humourists Thackeray's Henry Esmond Thoreau's Walden Virgil's Æneid Washington's Farewell Address, and Webster's First Bunker Hill Oration Whittier's Snow-Bound and Other Early Poems Woolman's Journal Wordsworth's Shorter Poems

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ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS

SELECTED AND EDITED
BY

CLAUDE M. FUESS

AND

HENRY N. SANBORN

INSTRUCTORS IN ENGLISH IN PHILLIPS ACADEMY
ANDOVER, MASSACHUSETTS

New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1911

All rights reserved

Copyright, 1909,

By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.

Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1909.
Reprinted June, 1910; June, 1911.

Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing Co.—Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

Narrative poetry is distinguished from other types of verse in that it aims to relate a connected series of events and, therefore, deals primarily with actions, rather than with thoughts or emotions. This definition, however, simple as it appears to be in theory, is often difficult to apply as a test because other matter is blended with the pure narrative. In any story where the situation is made prominent, description may be required to make clear the scene and explain movements to the reader; thus Enoch Arden begins with a word picture of a sea-coast town. Again it is often necessary to analyze the motives which actuate certain characters, and so it becomes necessary to introduce exposition of some sort into the plot. The poems in this collection serve to enforce the lesson that the four standard rhetorical forms—narration, description, exposition, and argumentation—are constantly being combined and welded in a complicated way. In cases where these various literary elements are apparently in a tangle, a classification, if it be made at all, must be based on the design of the poem as a whole, and the emphasis and proportion given to the respective elements by the author. If the stress is laid on the recounting of the events which make up a unified action, and if the other factors are made subordinate and subsidiary to this end, then the poem in question belongs to the narrative group.

The antiquity of the narrative as a form of literature is undisputed. Indeed it has been established with a reasonable degree of certainty that poetry in its very beginnings was narrative and in its primitive state must have been a sort of rude, rhythmical chant, originated and participated in by the tribe as a whole, and telling of the exploits of gods or legendary heroes. In the course of time there arose the minstrel, who, acting first as chorus leader, became eventually the representative of the tribe and its own special singer. When we reach a somewhat more advanced stage of civilization, we find regularly appointed bards reciting their lays in the hall of the chieftain or urging on the warriors to battle with rehearsals of past victories. Originally these bards simply repeated the old oral traditions handed down as common property, but the opportunity for the display of individual genius soon induced them to try variations on the current themes and to compose versions of their own. With this advance of individualism, poetry became gradually more complex. Various elements, lyrical, descriptive, and dramatic, assumed some prominence and tended to develop separate forms. This differentiation, however, did not impair the vigor of the story-telling spirit, and a constant succession of narrative poems down to the present day evidences how productive and characteristic a feature of our literature this form has been.

Obviously it is impracticable to undertake here even a brief summary of the history of English narrative poetry and of the influences to which it has been responsive. Something may, nevertheless, be done to map out roughly a few divisions which may be of assistance in bringing this material into orderly shape for the student. Many efforts at systematic classification have been made, and a few fairly well-marked types have been defined. In spite of this fact, the task still presents insuperable obstacles over which there has been futile controversy. One type is likely to run into another in a way which is uncomfortably baffling. Then there are numerous nondescript works whose proper place seems determinable by no law of poetics. The fact is that, here at least, narrow distinctions are bound to be unsatisfactory. The critic finds it imperative to avoid dogmatism lest he lay himself open to attack; his only refuge is in the general statement which may be suggestive even if it is not exact.

Of the fixed types, two of the best known, the Epic and the Ballad, were among the earliest to be created. The Epic in its original form was a long poem of uniform metre, serious in tone and elevated in style, introducing supernatural or heroic characters and usually dealing with some significant event in racial or national history. In its first or primitive shape it was anonymous, a spontaneous outgrowth of popular feeling, though perhaps arranged and revised at a later date by some conscious artistic hand. Such a primitive Epic is the old English Beowulf: it is thoroughly objective; in it no clew to definite authorship can be detected; in it personality is buried in the rush of incident and the clash of action. When, with the broadening of the scope of poetry, the individual writer displaced the tribe as the preserver of folk-lore, the new order of things evolved the so-called artificial Epic as represented by Milton's Paradise Lost. Here the conventional Epic style and material is kept; the universe is the stage, and the figures upon it are imposing and grand; but behind the poem is a single personality whose mood colors and modifies the whole. The Epic is no longer entirely racial or national, but individual; and we have the introduction of such passages as Milton's reference to his own blindness in Book Three.

Akin to the Epic is the Mock Epic, which appropriates the Epic machinery and Epic style to use them in dealing with trivialities. In Pope's The Rape of the Lock, the most artistic Mock Epic in English, the theft of a single lock of hair becomes an act of national and supernatural interest and a game of cards is described as if it were a mighty battle.

Almost parallel with and closely resembling the development of the Epic is that of the Ballad. Like the primitive Epic in anonymity and impersonality, the Ballad was much shorter, had rime and stanzas, and dealt, as a rule, with incidents of less importance. Not so formal or pretentious as the Epic, it was easily memorized even by the peasant, and handed down from generation to generation by word of mouth. Favorite subjects were the legends of Robin Hood, the misfortunes of nobles, and the incidents of Border warfare. Mixed in many of them was a tendency toward superstition, a survival of the belief in ghosts, magicians, and talking animals. Numerous examples gathered by antiquaries may be found in the edition of old English Ballads in this series; among the better known are The Wife of Usher's Well and Chevy Chase. Later poets naturally adapted the Ballad form to their own uses, and so we have the artificial Ballad, illustrated by Cowper's The History of John Gilpin, Longfellow's The Wreck of the Hesperus, and Swinburne's May Janet. In these poems many of the trite expressions so peculiar to the primitive Ballad are retained; but, like the artificial Epic, the work is no longer communal, but individual, in origin and bears the stamp of one mind animated by an artistic purpose.

In discussing the Epic and the Ballad one is on fairly safe ground, but between these types one finds a vast amount of poetry, evidently narrative, which suggests perplexing problems. Much of it may be made to come under what we term loosely the Metrical Romance. This title is often narrowed by scholars to apply strictly to a poetical genre, arising in the Middle Ages and brought into England by the Norman-French, which deals in a rambling way with the marvellous adventures of wandering knights or heroes. Its plot, in which love and combat are conspicuous features, is enveloped in a kind of glamour, an atmosphere of unreality. It drew its material from many diverse sources: from the legends of Troy and the stories of classical and Oriental antiquity; from the tales of the Frankish Emperor Charlemagne and his paladins; from the Celtic accounts of King Arthur and the Table Round. Since its characters, sometimes not without anachronism, embodied the chivalric ideals of courtesy and loyalty to ladies, hatred of paganism, and general conduct according to a prescribed but unwritten code, its appeal was made for the most part to the courtier and the aristocrat,—though it must be added that many of the robuster Charlemagne romances acquired currency with the humbler classes and were sung in the cottage of the peasant. The fact that the greater number of these Metrical Romances were mere redactions, taken from foreign models, makes them seem deficient in English interest. Still, several of the best were of native composition, an excellent example being the well-known Sir Gawayne and the Green Knight.

But even in spite of a few slight advantages to be gained, it seems unwise to restrict the Metrical Romance too closely. What we are accustomed to call, rather vaguely, romance is a persistent quality in narrative poetry, and is not limited to the literature of any particular age or rank of society. A cursory examination will disclose many evidences of the romantic spirit in both the Epic and the Ballad. And certainly Scott's The Lay of the Last Minstrel, Keats's The Eve of St. Agnes, Longfellow's Evangeline, and many other poems on similar themes must remain unclassified unless we designate them broadly as Metrical Romances. Of course, it is not essential that they should be pigeon-holed and put away with the right label affixed. However, one or two observations on the subject-matter with which works of this nature deal may assist us in avoiding embarrassing confusion. Sometimes the Metrical Romance (using the term in its broader sense) deals with authenticated incidents of history. In such cases, the narrative, founded as it is on matters of fact, is compelled to preserve substantial accuracy with regard to the events which it uses for a structure. The fancy is thus partly curbed through the necessity of not departing radically from the truth. This restraint, logically enough, does not prevent the introduction of fictitious characters or episodes; but in the strict historical poem, as in the historical novel, it does require adherence to chronology and a just representation of the period in which the action takes place. Occasionally this form approaches a poetical paraphrase, as in Rossetti's The White Ship. The nineteenth century was singularly prolific in works of this sort; notable among such works are Scott's Marmion, Tennyson's The Revenge, and Longfellow's Paul Revere's Ride. If the basis of the poem is mythological, we have a further species of the Metrical Romance. The stories clustered around the gods and goddesses of unsophisticated peoples are perennially attractive and offer a fruitful field to the poet. In the setting there is frequent opportunity for elaborate description, and there is often, as in Tennyson's Œnone and William Morris's Atalanta's Race, ornamentation used by the author that is more than ordinarily remarkable. For such poetry the Greek and Latin writers furnish a wealth of material for imitation. Nor have the myths of other races been neglected in recent years. Matthew Arnold's Balder Dead has its inspiration in the Norse Eddas and has its opening scene in Valhalla where Odin, father of the gods, presides over the immortals. William Morris's Sigurd the Volsing is an adaptation of the myths of the early Germans.

It is not aside from the point to refer here to the few poems in which the subject-matter of the Metrical Romance is used, strangely enough, as a means of teaching moral ideas. Spenser's Faerie Queene presents such an anomaly. In it conventional chivalric heroes undergo surprising and impossible adventures, battling and loving as in the legends of Charlemagne and Arthur. Indeed, in the Faerie Queene, Arthur himself appears as the protagonist. But these knights and ladies are, we learn, merely animated vices and virtues and are such, because, as Spenser takes pains to tell us, the poem, though romantic in mood, is allegorical in intention, its aim being "to fashion a gentleman or noble person in vertuous and gentle discipline." The author in using his characters as agents of moral instruction creates a type as much by itself as Pilgrim's Progress is in prose. Modern examples less conspicuous for visible allegorical intention are Tennyson's Idylls of the King, in which Arthurian material is once more revived with something of an ethical purpose.

There is still to be taken up a large body of poems, usually, though not always, shorter than the Metrical Romances, which deal with the situations of common life and with the humbler members of society. By some authorities the term Metrical Tale has been applied to such compositions; though it is hardly exact or specific, since the word "tale" is usually made synonymous with "story" and therefore does not connote a limited subject-matter. We may accept it in a provisional way as a convenient technical term for our purposes. The Metrical Tale, then, as contrasted with the Metrical Romance, attempts a realistic portrayal of the natural sorrows, losses, or pains which belong to our everyday experience. The emotions of which it treats are fundamentally strong and keep the style and versification from becoming overelaborated. The Metrical Tale may be humorous as in Chaucer's The Miller's Tale, or may be pathetic and tragic as in Tennyson's Enoch Arden or Wordsworth's Michael. In these poems it will be observed that the diction and phraseology are exceedingly simple. But here, too, candor requires the admission that the alleged difference between the Romance and the Tale is likely to bring on a charge of inconsistency. Enoch Arden, just now mentioned, abounds in romantic episodes, though Enoch and Philip and Annie dwell in a little fishing village. Why, if Chaucer chose to call his masterpiece the Canterbury Tales, should any one take the liberty of questioning his nomenclature? The query is well founded; and yet the reader must recognize a wide gulf in tone and spirit between The Knight's Tale and The Reeve's Tale. Call it, if you will, the distinction between idealism and realism; at any rate it exists, and ought to be made plain even at the risk of confronting dilemmas of another sort.

Having a kind of relationship to what we call arbitrarily the Metrical Tale is the Beast Fable in verse, in which animals and birds are endowed with reason and speech. The excuse for the Beast Fable is an ethical one, and the story, often humorous, is merely a vehicle for instruction,—a fact evident enough from the so-called moral appended to most Beast Fables. The best Beast Fables in English are those of John Gay.

It is beyond the scope of this introduction to make any but a passing reference to the forms of versification which have been used in narrative poetry. In general, the range of metres is wide and varied, though a few common lines and stanzas occur with much frequency. Blank Verse, a favorite Epic measure used by Milton in Paradise Lost, has also been effective in the Metrical Romance (Arnold's Sohrab and Rustum) and the Metrical Tale (Wordsworth's Michael). It is peculiarly fitting to longer poems of a serious character. The Heroic Couplet, made up of two rimed iambic pentameters, was invented by Chaucer and tried in many of the Canterbury Tales. It has since become very common, being the measure of such widely different poems as Marlowe's Hero and Leander, Pope's The Rape of the Lock, and Keats's Lamia. Octosyllabic verse is frequently found,—sometimes in rimed couplets as in Scott's Marmion, less often unrimed as in Longfellow's Hiawatha. In the couplet form it is especially suited to war poetry where a rapid movement is desirable. The standard four-lined ballad stanza with rimed alternate lines has continued in popularity with the artificial ballad writers and has been used in such poems as Wordsworth's Lucy Gray and Longfellow's The Wreck of the Hesperus. Most complicated of all the narrative stanzaic forms is the Spenserian stanza, devised by Spenser for his Faerie Queene and imitated by Keats in The Eve of St. Agnes. It has a stateliness which makes it well adapted to dignified themes. In some few examples there is a metre wholly irregular and following the movement of the story, as in Tennyson's The Revenge and Browning's Hervé Riel.

The discussion of narrative methods may be left to the will and discretion of the teacher. A study of the separate poems here presented will show that while the four almost indispensable elements of narration—plot, setting, characters, and motive—may usually be found, their use and emphasis vary greatly according to the theories and personalities of the authors. The employment of such arts of construction as suspense and climax may be discovered by the individual student, who should also test each poem for its unity, coherence, and proportion. In a collection such as this there is ample room for instructive criticism and comparison. But narrative poems may well be read for the interest they excite. If a narrative poem fails in this respect, it is all but condemned from the start. It is hoped that these examples may show the student that poetry is not always dull and lifeless; that it may possess at times all the features which make literature attractive as well as inspiring.

The editors are grateful for assistance rendered them by Mr. A. W. Leonard and Mr. Archibald Freeman, both instructors in Phillips Academy, Andover, Massachusetts.

[WILLIAM COWPER]

THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN

SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN HE INTENDED, AND CAME HOME SAFE AGAIN

John Gilpin was a citizen Of credit and renown, A trainband captain eke[1] was he Of famous London town.

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear,5 "Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we No holiday have seen.

"To-morrow is our wedding day, And we will then repair10 Unto the Bell at Edmonton[2] All in a chaise and pair.

"My sister, and my sister's child, Myself, and children three, Will fill the chaise; so you must ride15 On horseback after we.[3]"

He soon replied, "I do admire Of womankind but one, And you are she, my dearest dear, Therefore it shall be done.20

"I am a linendraper bold, As all the world doth know, And my good friend the calender[4] Will lend his horse to go."

Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said;25 And for that wine is dear, We will be furnished with our own, Which is both bright and clear."

John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife; O'erjoyed was he to find,30 That, though on pleasure she was bent, She had a frugal mind.

The morning came, the chaise was brought, But yet was not allow'd To drive up to the door, lest all35 Should say that she was proud.

So three doors off the chaise was stay'd, Where they did all get in; Six precious souls, and all agog[5] To dash through thick and thin.40

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, Were never folks so glad, The stones did rattle underneath, As if Cheapside[6] were mad.

John Gilpin at his horse's side45 Seized fast the flowing mane, And up he got, in haste to ride, But soon came down again;

For saddletree[7] scarce reach'd had he His journey to begin,50 When, turning round his head, he saw Three customers come in.

So down he came; for loss of time, Although it grieved him sore, Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,55 Would trouble him much more.

'Twas long before the customers Were suited to their mind, When Betty screaming came down stairs, "The wine is left behind!"60

"Good lack!" quoth he—"yet bring it me, My leathern belt likewise, In which I bear my trusty sword When I do exercise."

Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!)65 Had two stone bottles found, To hold the liquor that she loved, And keep it safe and sound.

Each bottle had a curling ear, Through which the belt he drew,70 And hung a bottle on each side, To make his balance true.

Then over all, that he might be Equipp'd from top to toe, His long red cloak, well brush'd and neat,75 He manfully did throw.

Now see him mounted once again Upon his nimble steed, Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, With caution and good heed.80

But finding soon a smoother road Beneath his well shod feet, The snorting beast began to trot, Which gall'd him in his seat.

So, "fair and softly," John he cried,85 But John he cried in vain; That trot became a gallop soon, In spite of curb and rein.

So stooping down, as needs he must Who cannot sit upright,90 He grasp'd the mane with both his hands, And eke with all his might.

His horse, who never in that sort Had handled been before, What thing upon his back had got95 Did wonder more and more.

Away went Gilpin, neck or nought; Away went hat and wig; He little dreamt, when he set out, Of running such a rig.100

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, Like streamer long and gay, Till, loop and button failing both, At last it flew away.

Then might all people well discern105 The bottles he had slung; A bottle swinging at each side, As hath been said or sung.

The dogs did bark, the children scream'd, Up flew the windows all;110 And every soul cried out, "Well done!" As loud as he could bawl.

Away went Gilpin—who but he? His fame soon spread around, "He carries weight! he rides a race [8]!115 'Tis for a thousand pound!"

And still as fast as he drew near, 'Twas wonderful to view, How in a trice the turnpike men Their gates wide open threw.120

And now, as he went bowing down His reeking head full low, The bottles twain behind his back Were shatter'd at a blow.

Down ran the wine into the road,125 Most piteous to be seen, Which made his horse's flanks to smoke As they had basted been.

But still he seem'd to carry weight, With leathern girdle braced;130 For all might see the bottle necks Still dangling at his waist.

Thus all through merry Islington[9] These gambols did he play, Until he came unto the Wash135 Of Edmonton so gay;

And there he threw the wash about On both sides of the way, Just like unto a trundling mop, Or a wild goose at play.140

At Edmonton his loving wife From the balcony spied Her tender husband, wondering much To see how he did ride.

"Stop, stop, John Gilpin!—Here's the house,"145 They all at once did cry; "The dinner waits, and we are tired:" Said Gilpin—"So am I!"

But yet his horse was not a whit Inclined to tarry there;150 For why?—his owner had a house Full ten miles off, at Ware.[10]

So like an arrow swift he flew, Shot by an archer strong; So did he fly—which brings me to155 The middle of my song.

Away went Gilpin out of breath, And sore against his will, Till at his friend the calender's His horse at last stood still.160

The calender, amazed to see His neighbor in such trim, Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, And thus accosted him:

"What news? what news? your tidings tell;165 Tell me you must and shall— Say why bareheaded you are come, Or why you come at all?"

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, And loved a timely joke;170 And thus unto the calender In merry guise he spoke:

"I came because your horse would come; And, if I well forbode, My hat and wig will soon be here,175 They are upon the road."

The calender, right glad to find His friend in merry pin,[11] Return'd him not a single word, But to the house went in;180

Whence straight he came with hat and wig; A wig that flow'd behind, A hat not much the worse for wear, Each comely in its kind.

He held them up, and in his turn185 Thus show'd his ready wit, "My head is twice as big as yours, They therefore needs must fit.

"But let me scrape the dirt away That hangs upon your face;190 And stop and eat, for well you may Be in a hungry case."

Said John, "It is my wedding day, And all the world would stare, If wife should dine at Edmonton,195 And I should dine at Ware."

So turning to his horse, he said, "I am in haste to dine; 'Twas for your pleasure you came here, You shall go back for mine."200

Ah luckless speech, and bootless boast! For which he paid full dear; For, while he spake, a braying ass Did sing most loud and clear;

Whereat his horse did snort, as he205 Had heard a lion roar, And gallop'd off with all his might, As he had done before.

Away went Gilpin, and away Went Gilpin's hat and wig:210 He lost them sooner than at first, For why?—they were too big.

Now mistress Gilpin, when she saw Her husband posting down Into the country far away,215 She pull'd out half a crown;

And thus unto the youth she said, That drove them to the Bell, "This shall be yours, when you bring back My husband safe and well."220

The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain[12]; Whom in a trice he tried to stop, By catching at his rein;

But not performing what he meant,225 And gladly would have done, The frighted steed he frighted more, And made him faster run.

Away went Gilpin, and away Went postboy at his heels,230 The postboy's horse right glad to miss The lumbering of the wheels.

Six gentlemen upon the road, Thus seeing Gilpin fly, With postboy scampering in the rear,235 They raised the hue and cry[13]:—

"Stop thief! stop thief!—a highwayman!" Not one of them was mute; And all and each that passed that way Did join in the pursuit.240

And now the turnpike gates again Flew open in short space; The toll-men thinking as before, That Gilpin rode a race.

And so he did, and won it too,245 For he got first to town; Nor stopp'd till where he had got up He did again get down.

Now let us sing, "Long live the king, And Gilpin, long live he;"250 And when he next doth ride abroad, May I be there to see!

[ROBERT BURNS]

TAM O' SHANTER

"Of brownyis and of bogilis full is this buke."
Gawin Douglas.
A Tale

When chapman billies[14] leave the street, And drouty[15] neebors, neebors meet, As market-days are wearing late, And folk begin to tak the gate[16]; While we sit bousing at the nappy,[17]5 And gettin' fou[18] and unco[19] happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles. The mosses, waters, slaps[20] and styles, That lie between us and our hame, Where sits our sulky sullen dame,10 Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, As he frae[21] Ayr[22] ae night did canter, (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses15 For honest men and bonny lasses.)

O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise, As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice! She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum,[23] A blethering,[24] blustering, drunken blellum[25];20 That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou wasna sober; That ilka[26] melder,[27] wi' the miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; That every naig was ca'd[28] a shoe on,25 The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. She prophesied that, late or soon, Thou would be found deep drowned in Doon,[29]30 Or catched wi' warlocks[30] in the mirk,[31] By Alloway's[32] auld haunted kirk.[33]

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,[34] To think how monie counsels sweet, How monie lengthened sage advices,35 The husband frae the wife despises!

But to our tale:—Ae market-night, Tam had got planted[35] unco right, Fast by an ingle,[36] bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats,[37] that drank divinely;40 And at his elbow, Souter[38] Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither— They had been fou for weeks thegither! The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter,45 And aye the ale was growing better; The landlady and Tam grew gracious, Wi' favors secret, sweet, and precious; The souter tauld his queerest stories, The landlord's laugh was ready chorus;50 The storm without might rair and rustle— Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drowned himself amang the nappy! As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,55 The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure: Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious.

But pleasures are like poppies spread,— You seize the flower, its bloom is shed;60 Or like the snowfall in the river,— A moment white—then melts forever; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the rainbow's lovely form,65 Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether time or tide; The hour approaches Tam maun[39] ride: That hour, o' night's black arch the keystane, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;70 And sic a night he taks the road in As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; The rattling showers rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed;75 Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowed: That night, a child might understand, The Deil[40] had business on his hand.

Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, (A better never lifted leg,)80 Tam skelpit[41] on through dub[42] and mire, Despising wind, and rain, and fire; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; Whiles glowering round wi' prudent cares,85 Lest bogles[43] catch him unawares:— Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Where ghaists and houlets[44] nightly cry.

By this time he was cross the ford, Where in the snaw the chapman smoored[45];90 And past the birks[46] and meikle stane,[47] Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane; And through the whins,[48] and by the cairn,[49] Where hunters fand the murdered bairn[50]; And near the thorn, aboon the well,95 Where Mungo's mither hanged hersel'. Before him Doon pours all his floods; The doubling storm roars through the woods; The lightnings flash from pole to pole; Near and more near the thunders roll;100 When, glimmering through the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seemed in a bleeze[51]; Through ilka bore[52] the beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn,[53]105 What dangers thou canst make us scorn! Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil; Wi' usquebae,[54] we'll face the devil!— The swats sae reamed in Tammie's noddle, Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle.[55]110 But Maggie stood right sair astonished, Till, by the heel and hand admonished, She ventured forward on the light; And, vow! Tam saw an unco sight! Warlocks and witches in a dance;115 Nae cotillion brent[56] new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys,[57] and reels, Put life and mettle in their heels. A winnock-bunker[58] in the east, There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;120 A towzie tyke,[59] black, grim, and large, To gie them music was his charge; He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl,[60] Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.[61] Coffins stood round, like open presses,125 That shawed the dead in their last dresses; And by some devilish cantrip slight[62] Each in its cauld hand held a light: By which heroic Tam was able To note upon the haly table,130 A murderer's banes in gibbet airns; Twa span-lang, wee unchristened bairns; A thief, new-cutted frae the rape, Wi' his last gasp his gab[63] did gape; Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted;135 Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted; A garter which a babe had strangled; A knife, a father's throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o' life bereft,— The gray hairs yet stack to the heft:140 Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', Which even to name wad be unlawfu'!

As Tammie glow'red, amazed and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious; The piper loud and louder blew;145 The dancers quick and quicker flew; They reeled, they set, they crossed, they cleekit,[64] Till ilka carlin[65] swat and reekit, And coost her duddies[66] to the wark, And linket[67] at it in her sark[68]!150

Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans,[69] A' plump and strappin' in their teens; Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen,[70] Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder linen[71]! Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,155 That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies,[72] For ae blink o' the bonny burdies[73]! But withered beldams,[74] auld and droll Rigwooddie[75] hags wad spean[76] a foal,160 Louping and flinging on a cummock,[77] I wonder didna turn thy stomach.

But Tam kenned what was what fu' brawlie[78]; There was ae winsome wench and walie,[79] That night enlisted in the core,[80]165 (Lang after kenned on Carrick shore; For monie a beast to dead she shot, And perished monie a bonny boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear,[81] And kept the country-side in fear.)170 Her cutty-sark,[82] o' Paisley harn,[83] That while a lassie she had won, In longitude though sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie.[84] Ah! little kenned thy reverend grannie175 That sark she coft[85] for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), Wad ever graced a dance o' witches!

But here my Muse her wing maun cour; Sic flights are far beyond her power;—180 To sing how Nannie lap and flang[86] (A souple jade she was, and strang), And how Tam stood like ane bewitched, And thought his very e'en[87] enriched: Even Satan glow'red and fidged fu' fain,[88]185 And hotched[89] and blew wi' might and main: Till first ae caper, syne[90] anither, Tam tint[91] his reason a' thegither, And roars out: "Weel done, Cutty-sark!" And in an instant all was dark:190 And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,[92] When plundering herds assail their byke[93]; As open poussie's mortal foes,195 When, pop! she starts before their nose; As eager runs the market-crowd, When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' monie an eldritch[94] screech and hollow.200

Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get they fairin'[95]! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin'; Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,205 And win the keystane o' the brig; There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running-stream they darena cross[96]! But ere the keystane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake!210 For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle,[97]— But little wist she Maggie's mettle! Ae spring brought off her master hale,215 But left behind her ain gray tail: The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, Ilk man and mother's son, take heed!220 Whene'er to drink you are inclined, Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear,— Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.

[WALTER SCOTT]

LOCHINVAR

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border[98] his steed was the best; And, save his good broadsword, he weapons had none, He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,5 There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone, He swam the Esk river[99] where ford there was none; But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late:10 For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall, Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,15 (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) "O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"—

"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;— Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like the tide—20 And now I am come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."

The bride kiss'd the goblet: the knight took it up,25 He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh, With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,— "Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.30

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, There never a hall such a galliard [100] did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whisper'd, "'Twere better by far,35 To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung!40 "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur [101]; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee,45 But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war. Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

[WILLIAM WORDSWORTH]

MICHAEL

A Pastoral Poem

If from the public way you turn your steps Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll,[102] You will suppose that with an upright path Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent The pastoral mountains front you, face to face.5 But courage! for around that boisterous brook The mountains have all opened out themselves, And made a hidden valley of their own. No habitation can be seen; but they Who journey thither find themselves alone10 With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites That overhead are sailing in the sky. It is in truth an utter solitude; Nor should I have made mention of this Dell But for one object which you might pass by,15 Might see and notice not. Beside the brook Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones! And to that simple object appertains A story—unenriched with strange events, Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside,20 Or for the summer shade. It was the first Of those domestic tales that spake to me Of shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men Whom I already loved; not verily For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills25 Where was their occupation and abode. And hence this Tale, while I was yet a boy Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects, led me on to feel30 For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life. Therefore, although it be a history Homely and rude, I will relate the same35 For the delight of a few natural hearts; And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake Of youthful Poets, who among these hills Will be my second self when I am gone. Upon the forest side in Grasmere vale40 There dwelt a shepherd, Michael was his name; An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength; his mind was keen, Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs,45 And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt And watchful more than ordinary men. Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds, Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes, When others heeded not, he heard the South50 Make subterraneous music, like the noise Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. The shepherd, at such warning, of his flock Bethought him, and he to himself would say, "The winds are now devising work for me!"55 And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives The traveller to a shelter, summoned him Up to the mountains: he had been alone Amid the heart of many thousand mists, That came to him, and left him, on the heights.60 So lived he till his eightieth year was past. And grossly that man errs who should suppose That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks, Were things indifferent to the shepherd's thoughts. Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed65 The common air; hills which with vigorous step He had so often climbed; which had impressed So many incidents upon his mind Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear; Which, like a book, preserved the memory70 Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved, Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts The certainty of honorable gain; Those fields, those hills—what could they less? had laid Strong hold on his affections, were to him75 A pleasurable feeling of blind love, The pleasure which there is in life itself. His days had not been passed in singleness. His Helpmate was a comely matron, old— Though younger than himself full twenty years.80 She was a woman of a stirring life, Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had Of antique form; this large, for spinning wool; That small, for flax; and if one wheel had rest It was because the other was at work.85 The Pair had but one inmate in their house, An only Child, who had been born to them When Michael, telling o'er his years, began To deem that he was old,—in shepherd's phrase, With one foot in the grave. This only Son,90 With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm, The one of an inestimable worth, Made all their household. I may truly say, That they were as a proverb in the vale For endless industry. When day was gone,95 And from their occupations out of doors The Son and Father were come home, even then, Their labor did not cease; unless when all Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and there, Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk,100 Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes, And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the meal Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named) And his old Father both betook themselves To such convenient work as might employ105 Their hands by the fireside; perhaps to card Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, Or other implement of house or field. Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge,110 That in our ancient uncouth country style With huge and black projection overbrowed Large space beneath, as duly as the light Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp; An aged utensil, which had performed115 Service beyond all others of its kind. Early at evening did it burn—and late, Surviving comrade of uncounted hours, Which, going by from year to year, had found, And left, the couple neither gay perhaps120 Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes, Living a life of eager industry. And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year, There by the light of this old lamp they sate, Father and Son, while far into the night125 The Housewife plied her own peculiar work, Making the cottage through the silent hours Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. This light was famous in its neighborhood, And was a public symbol of the life130 That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced, Their cottage on a plot of rising ground Stood single, with large prospect, north and south, High into Easedale,[103] up to Dunmail-Raise, And westward to the village near the lake;135 And from this constant light, so regular And so far seen, the House itself, by all Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, Both old and young, was named The Evening Star. Thus living on through such a length of years,140 The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs Have loved his Helpmate; but to Michael's heart This son of his old age was yet more dear— Less from instinctive tenderness, the same Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all—145 Than that a child, more than all other gifts That earth can offer to declining man, Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, And stirrings of inquietude, when they By tendency of nature need must fail.150 Exceeding was the love he bare to him, His heart and his heart's joy! For oftentimes Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, Had done him female service, not alone For pastime and delight, as is the use155 Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked His cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand. And, in a later time, ere yet the boy Had put on man's attire, did Michael love,160 Albeit of a stern unbending mind, To have the Young-one in his sight, when he Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's stool Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched Under the large old oak, that near his door165 Stood single, and from matchless depth of shade, Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun, Thence in our rustic dialect was called The Clipping Tree, a name which yet it bears. There while they two were sitting in the shade,170 With others round them, earnest all and blithe Would Michael exercise his heart with looks Of fond correction, and reproof bestowed Upon the child, if he disturbed the sheep By catching at their legs, or with his shouts175 Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears. And when by Heaven's good grace the boy grew up A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek Two steady roses that were five years old; Then Michael from a winter coppice cut180 With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped With iron, making it throughout in all Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff, And gave it to the boy; wherewith equipt He as a watchman oftentimes was placed185 At gate or gap to stem or turn the flock; And, to his office prematurely called, There stood the urchin, as you will divine, Something between a hindrance and a help; And for this cause not always, I believe,190 Receiving from his father hire of praise; Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice, Or looks or threatening gestures, could perform. But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand Against the mountain blasts; and to the heights,195 Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, He with his father daily went, and they Were as companions, why should I relate That objects which the shepherd loved before Were dearer now? that from the Boy there came200 Feelings and emanations—things which were Light to the sun and music to the wind; And that the old Man's heart seemed born again? Thus in his father's sight the Boy grew up; And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year,205 He was his comfort and his daily hope. While in this sort the simple household lived From day to day, to Michael's ear there came Distressful tidings. Long before the time Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound210 In surety for his brother's son, a man Of an industrious life, and ample means; But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly Had prest upon him; and old Michael now Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture,215 A grievous penalty, but little less Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim, At the first hearing, for a moment took More hope out of his life than he supposed That any old man ever could have lost.220 As soon as he had armed himself with strength To look his troubles in the face, it seemed The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once A portion of his patrimonial fields. Such was his first resolve; he thought again,225 And his heart failed him. "Isabel," said he, Two evenings after he had heard the news, "I have been toiling more than seventy years, And in the open sunshine of God's love Have we all lived; yet if these fields of ours230 Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think That I could not lie quiet in my grave. Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself Has scarcely been more diligent than I; And I have lived to be a fool at last235 To my own family. An evil man That was, and made an evil choice, if he Were false to us; and if he were not false, There are ten thousand to whom loss like this Had been no sorrow. I forgive him;—but240 'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus. When I began, my purpose was to speak Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land Shall not go from us, and it shall be free;245 He shall possess it, free as is the wind That passes over it. We have, thou know'st, Another kinsman—he will be our friend In this distress. He is a prosperous man, Thriving in trade—and Luke to him shall go,250 And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift He quickly will repair this loss, and then He may return to us. If here he stay, What can be done? Where every one is poor, What can be gained?" At this the old Man paused,255 And Isabel sat silent, for her mind Was busy, looking back into past times. There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself, He was a parish-boy—at the church-door They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence260 And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbors bought A basket, which they filled with pedlar's wares; And, with this basket on his arm, the lad Went up to London, found a master there, Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy265 To go and overlook his merchandise Beyond the seas; where he grew wondrous rich, And left estates and monies to the poor, And, at his birthplace, built a chapel, floored With marble which he sent from foreign lands.270 These thoughts, and many others of like sort, Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel, And her face brightened. The old Man was glad, And thus resumed:—"Well, Isabel! this scheme These two days, has been meat and drink to me.275 Far more than we have lost is left us yet. —We have enough—I wish indeed that I Were younger;—but this hope is a good hope. —Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best Buy for him more, and let us send him forth280 To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night: —If he could go, the Boy should go to-night." Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth With a light heart. The Housewife for five days Was restless morn and night, and all day long285 Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare Things needful for the journey of her son. But Isabel was glad when Sunday came To stop her in her work: for, when she lay By Michael's side, she through the last two nights290 Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep; And when they rose at morning she could see That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon She said to Luke, while they two by themselves Were sitting at the door, "Thou must not go:295 We have no other Child but thee to lose, None to remember—do not go away, For if thou leave thy Father, he will die." The Youth made answer with a jocund voice; And Isabel, when she had told her fears,300 Recovered heart. That evening her best fare Did she bring forth, and all together sat Like happy people round a Christmas fire. With daylight Isabel resumed her work; And all the ensuing week the house appeared305 As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length The expected letter from their kinsman came, With kind assurances that he would do His utmost for the welfare of the boy; To which, requests were added, that forthwith310 He might be sent to him. Ten times or more The letter was read over; Isabel Went forth to show it to the neighbors round; Nor was there at that time on English land A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel315 Had to her house returned, the old Man said, "He shall depart to-morrow." To this word The Housewife answered, talking much of things Which, if at such short notice he should go, Would surely be forgotten. But at length320 She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. Near the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll, In that deep valley, Michael had designed To build a Sheepfold; and, before he heard The tidings of his melancholy loss,325 For this same purpose he had gathered up A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge Lay thrown together, ready for the work. With Luke that evening thitherward he walked: And soon as they had reached the place he stopped,330 And thus the old man spoke to him:—"My son, To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full heart I look upon thee, for thou art the same That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, And all thy life hast been my daily joy.335 I will relate to thee some little part Of our two histories; 'twill do thee good When thou art from me, even if I should touch On things thou canst not know of.—After thou First cam'st into the world—as oft befalls340 To new-born infants—thou didst sleep away Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on, And still I loved thee with increasing love. Never to living ear came sweeter sounds345 Then when I heard thee by our own fireside First uttering, without words, a natural tune; While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy Sing at thy mother's breast. Month followed month And in the open fields my life was passed350 And on the mountains; else I think that thou Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's knees. But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills, As well thou knowest, in us the old and young Have played together, nor with me didst thou355 Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." Luke had a manly heart; but at these words He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand, And said, "Nay, do not take it so—I see That these are things of which I need not speak.360 —Even to the utmost I have been to thee A kind and a good Father: and herein I but repay a gift which I myself Received at others' hands; for, though now old Beyond the common life of man, I still365 Remember them who loved me in my youth. Both of them sleep together: here they lived, As all their Forefathers had done; and when At length their time was come, they were not loth To give their bodies to the family mould.370 I wished that thou should'st live the life they lived: But, 'tis a long time to look back, my Son, And see so little gain from threescore years. These fields were burthened when they came to me; Till I was forty years of age, not more375 Than half of my inheritance was mine. I toiled and toiled; God blessed me in my work, And till these three weeks past the land was free. —It looks as if it never could endure Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke,380 If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good That thou should'st go." At this the old Man paused; Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood, Thus, after a short silence, he resumed: "This was a work for us; and now, my Son,385 It is a work for me. But, lay one stone— Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. Nay, Boy, be of good hope;—we both may live To see a better day. At eighty-four I still am strong and hale;—do thou thy part;390 I will do mine.—I will begin again With many tasks that were resigned to thee: Up to the heights, and in among the storms, Will I without thee go again, and do All works which I was wont to do alone,395 Before I knew thy face.—Heaven bless thee, Boy! Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast With many hopes; it should be so—yes—yes— I knew that thou could'st never have a wish To leave me, Luke: thou hast been bound to me400 Only by links of love: when thou art gone, What will be left to us!—But, I forget My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone, As I requested; and hereafter, Luke, When thou art gone away, should evil men405 Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts, And God will strengthen thee: amid all fear And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou May'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived,410 Who, being innocent, did for that cause Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well— When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see A work which is not here: a covenant 'Twill be between us; but, whatever fate415 Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last, And bear thy memory with me to the grave." The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stooped down, And, as his Father had requested, laid The first stone of the Sheepfold. At the sight420 The old Man's grief broke from him; to his heart He pressed his Son, he kissed him and wept; And to the house together they returned. —Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace, Ere the night fell:—with morrow's dawn the Boy425 Began his journey, and when he had reached The public way, he put on a bold face; And all the neighbors, as he passed their doors, Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers, That followed him till he was out of sight.430 A good report did from their Kinsman come, Of Luke and his well-doing: and the Boy Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout "The prettiest letters that were ever seen."435 Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. So, many months passed on: and once again The Shepherd went about his daily work With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour440 He to that valley took his way, and there Wrought at the Sheepfold. Meantime Luke began To slacken in his duty; and, at length, He in the dissolute city gave himself To evil courses: ignominy and shame445 Fell on him, so that he was driven at last To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. There is a comfort in the strength of love; 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else Would overset the brain, or break the heart:450 I have conversed with more than one who well Remember the old Man, and what he was Years after he had heard this heavy news. His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks455 He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud, And listened to the wind; and, as before, Performed all kinds of labor for his sheep, And for the land, his small inheritance. And to that hollow dell from time to time460 Did he repair, to build the Fold of which His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet The pity which was then in every heart For the old Man—and 'tis believed by all That many and many a day he thither went,465 And never lifted up a single stone. There, by the Sheepfold, sometimes was he seen Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. The length of full seven years, from time to time,470 He at the building of this Sheepfold wrought, And left the work unfinished when he died. Three years, or little more, did Isabel Survive her Husband: at his death the estate Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand.475 The Cottage which was named the Evening Star Is gone—the ploughshare has been through the ground On which it stood; great changes have been wrought In all the neighborhood:—yet the oak is left That grew beside their door; and the remains480 Of the unfinished Sheepfold may be seen Beside the boisterous brook of Greenhead Ghyll.

[LUCY GRAY; or SOLITUDE]

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: And, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;5 She dwelt on a wide moor. —The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green;10 But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night— You to the town must go; And take a lantern, child, to light15 Your mother through the snow."

"That, Father! will I gladly do: 'Tis scarcely afternoon— The minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon!"20

At this the father raised his hook, And snapped a faggot-band; He plied his work;—and Lucy took The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe:25 With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time: She wandered up and down;30 And many a hill did Lucy climb, But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight35 To serve them for a guide.

At day-break on a hill they stood That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door.40

They wept—and turning homeward, cried, "In heaven we all shall meet!" —When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge45 They tracked the footprints small; And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the long stone-wall;

And then an open field they crossed; The marks were still the same;50 They tracked them on, nor ever lost; And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank;55 And further there were none!

—Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild.60

O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind.

[THOMAS CAMPBELL]

HOHENLINDEN

On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser,[104] rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,5 When the drum beat at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Each horseman drew his battle blade,10 And furious every charger neighed, To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rushed the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of heaven,15 Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow, On Linden's hills of stained snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.20

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,25 Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave! And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part where many meet! The snow shall be their winding-sheet,30 And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

[BATTLE OF THE BALTIC]

I

Of Nelson and the North, Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone;5 By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on.

II

Like leviathans afloat,10 Lay their bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime: As they drifted on their path,15 There was silence deep as death; And the boldest held his breath, For a time.

III

But the might of England flush'd To anticipate the scene;20 And her van the fleeter rush'd O'er the deadly space between. "Hearts of oak!" our captain cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships,25 Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun.

IV

Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane30 To our cheering sent us back;— Their shots along the deep slowly boom:— Then ceased—and all is wail, As they strike the shatter'd sail; Or, in conflagration pale,35 Light the gloom.

V

Out spoke the victor then, As he hailed them o'er the wave; "Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save:—40 So peace instead of death let us bring; But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, With the crews, at England's feet And make submission meet To our King."45

VI

Then Denmark bless'd our chief, That he gave her wounds repose; And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose, As Death withdrew his shades from the day,50 While the sun looked smiling bright O'er a wide and woful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away.

VII

Now joy, Old England, raise!55 For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze, Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; And yet amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep,60 Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore!

VIII

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Once so faithful and so true;65 On the deck of fame that died;— With the gallant good Riou[105]; Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave While the billow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles,70 Singing glory to the souls Of the brave.

[CHARLES WOLFE]

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA[106]

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,5 The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;10 But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,15 And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!20

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,— But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our weary task was done25 When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory;30 We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone— But we left him alone with his glory.

[LORD BYRON]

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON

A Fable

I

My hair is gray, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears.[107] My limbs are bowed, though not with toil,5 But rusted with a vile repose, For they have been a dungeon's spoil, And mine has been the fate of those To whom the goodly earth and air Are banned, and barred—forbidden fare;10 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 race15 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;20 One in fire, and two in field, Their belief with blood have sealed[108]: Dying as their father died, For the God their foes denied;— Three were in a dungeon cast,25 Of whom this wreck is left the last.

II

There are seven[109] pillars of Gothic mould In Chillon's dungeons deep and old, There are seven columns massy and gray, Dim with a dull imprisoned ray,30 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[110]:35 And in each pillar there is a ring, And in each ring there is a chain; That iron is a cankering[111] thing, For in these limbs its teeth remain, With marks that will not wear away40 Till I have done with this new day, Which now is painful to these eyes, Which have not seen the sun so rise For years—I cannot count them o'er, I lost their long and heavy score45 When my last brother drooped and died, And I lay living by his side.

III

They chained us each to a column stone, And we were three—yet, each alone; We could not move a single pace,50 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 joined in heart;55 'Twas still some solace, in the dearth Of the pure elements[112] of earth, To hearken to each other's speech, And each turn comforter to each With some new hope or legend old,60 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 free65 As they of yore were wont to be; It might be fancy—but to me They never sounded like our own.

IV

I was the eldest of the three, And to uphold and cheer the rest70 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,75 For him my soul was sorely moved: And truly might it be distressed To see such bird in such a nest; For he was beautiful as day— (When day was beautiful to me80 As to young eagles being free)—
A polar day,[113] which will not see A sunset till its summer's gone, Its sleepless summer of long light, The snow-clad offspring of the sun:85 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 woe90 Which he abhorred to view below.

V

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,95 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[114] did mine:100 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,105 And fettered feet the worst of ills.

VI

Lake Leman[115] lies by Chillon's walls, A thousand feet in depth below Its massy waters meet and flow; Thus much the fathom-line was sent110 From Chillon's snow-white battlement, Which round about the wave inthrals: A double dungeon wall and wave Have made—and like a living grave. Below the surface of the lake115 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 high120 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.125

VII

I said my nearer brother pined, I said his mighty heart declined, He loathed and put away his food; It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, For we were used to hunter's fare,130 And for the like had little care: The milk drawn from the mountain goat Was changed for water from the moat,[116] Our bread was such as captive's tears Have moistened many a thousand years,135 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 mould140 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,145 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 grave150 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,155 That even in death his freeborn 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 above160 The being we so much did love; His empty chain above it leant, Such murder's fitting monument!

VIII

But he, the favourite and the flower, Most cherished since his natal hour,165 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 be170 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.175 Oh, 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,[117] I've seen it on the breaking ocean180 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;185 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 bloom190 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,195 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—lost200 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—205 I called, for I was wild with fear; I knew 'twas 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,210 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 link215 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;220 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 know225 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.[118]230

IX

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—235 Among the stones I stood a stone, And was, scarce conscious what I wist,[119] As shrubless crags within the mist; For all was blank, and bleak, and gray, It was not night—it was not day,240 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—245 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!250

X

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 eyes255 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,260 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 came265 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!270 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 when275 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,280 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 while285 Which made me both to weep and smile; I sometimes deemed that it might be My brother's soul[120] come down to me; But then at last away it flew, And then 'twas mortal—well I knew,290 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,[121] A single cloud on a sunny day,295 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.

XI

A kind of change came in my fate,300 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,305 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,310 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,315 My breath came gaspingly and thick, And my crushed heart fell blind and sick.

XII

I made a footing in the wall, It was not therefrom to escape, For I had buried one and all320 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;325 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,330 The quiet of a loving eye.

XIII

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,335 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;340 And then there was a little isle,[122] 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,345 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.350 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,355 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 abode360 Fell on me as a heavy load; It was as is 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.365

XIV

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,370 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,375 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:380 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,385 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 tends390 To make us what we are:—even I Regained my freedom with a sigh.[123]

[MAZEPPA]

I

'Twas after dread Pultowa's[124] day, When Fortune left the royal Swede. Around a slaughter'd army lay, No more to combat and to bleed. The power and glory of the war,5 Faithless as their vain votaries, men, Had pass'd to the triumphant Czar, And Moscow's walls were safe again, Until a day more dark and drear,[125] And a more memorable year,10 Should give to slaughter and to shame A mightier host and haughtier name; A greater wreck, a deeper fall, A shock to one—a thunderbolt to all.

II

Such was the hazard of the die[126];15 The wounded Charles was taught to fly By day and night through field and flood, Stain'd with his own and subjects' blood; For thousands fell that flight to aid; And not a voice was heard t' upbraid20 Ambition in his humbled hour, When truth had naught to dread from power. His horse was slain, and Gieta[127] gave His own—and died the Russians' slave. This too sinks after many a league25 Of well-sustain'd, but vain fatigue; And in the depth of forests darkling, The watch-fires in the distance sparkling— The beacons of surrounding foes— A king must lay his limbs at length.30 Are these the laurels and repose For which the nations strain their strength? They laid him by a savage tree, In outworn nature's agony; His wounds were stiff—his limbs were stark—35 The heavy hour was chill and dark; The fever in his blood forbade a transient slumber's fitful aid: And thus it was; but yet through all, Kinglike the monarch bore his fall,40 And made, in this extreme of ill, His pangs the vassals of his will: All silent and subdued were they, As once the nations round him lay.

III

A band of chiefs!—alas! how few,45 Since but the fleeting of a day Had thinn'd it; but this wreck was true And chivalrous: upon the clay Each sate him down, all sad and mute, Beside his monarch and his steed,50 For danger levels man and brute,[128] And all are fellows in their need. Among the rest, Mazeppa made His pillow in an old oak's shade— Himself as rough, and scarce less old,55 The Ukraine's hetman,[129] calm and bold. But first, outspent with his long course, The Cossack prince rubb'd down his horse, And made for him a leafy bed, And smooth'd his fetlocks and his mane,60 And slack'd his girth, and stripp'd his rein, And joy'd to see how well he fed; For until now he had the dread His wearied courser might refuse To browse beneath the midnight dews:65 But he was hardy as his lord, And little cared for bed and board; But spirited and docile too; Whate'er was to be done, would do. Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb,70 All Tartar-like he carried him; Obey'd his voice, and came to call, And knew him in the midst of all: Though thousands were around,—and Night, Without a star, pursued her flight,—75 That steed from sunset until dawn His chief would follow like a fawn.

IV

This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak, And laid his lance beneath his oak, Felt if his arms in order good80 The long day's march had well withstood— If still the powder fill'd the pan, And flints unloosen'd kept their lock— His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt, And whether they had chafed his belt—85 And next the venerable man, From out his haversack and can, Prepared and spread his slender stock; And to the monarch and his men The whole or portion offer'd then90 With far less of inquietude Than courtiers at a banquet would. And Charles of this his slender share With smiles partook a moment there, To force of cheer a greater show,95 And seem above both wounds and woe;— And then he said—"Of all our band, Though firm of heart and strong of hand, In skirmish, march, or forage, none Can less have said or more have done100 Than thee, Mazeppa! On the earth So fit a pain had never birth, Since Alexander's days till now, As thy Bucephalus[130] and thou: All Scythia's[131] fame to thine should yield105 For pricking on o'er flood and field." Mazeppa answer'd—"Ill betide The school wherein I learn'd to ride!" Quoth Charles—"Old Hetman, wherefore so, Since thou hast learn'd the art so well?"110 Mazeppa said—"'Twere long to tell; And we have many a league to go, With every now and then a blow, And ten to one at least the foe, Before our steeds may graze at ease115 Beyond the swift Borysthenes[132]; And, sire, your limbs have need of rest, And I will be the sentinel Of this your troop."—"But I request," Said Sweden's monarch, "thou wilt tell120 This tale of thine, and I may reap, Perchance, from this the boon of sleep; For at this moment from my eyes The hope of present slumber flies."

"Well, sire, with such a hope, I'll track125 My seventy years of memory back: I think 'twas in my twentieth spring— Ay, 'twas,—when Casimir was king— John Casimir,—I was his page Six summers, in my earlier age.130 A learned monarch, faith! was he, And most unlike your majesty: He made no wars, and did not gain New realms to lose them back again; And (save debates in Warsaw's diet)135 He reign'd in most unseemly quiet; Not that he had no cares to vex, He loved the muses and the sex; And sometimes these so froward are, They made him wish himself at war;140 But soon his wrath being o'er, he took Another mistress, or new book. And then he gave prodigious fêtes— All Warsaw gather'd round his gates To gaze upon his splendid court,145 And dames, and chiefs, of princely port: He was the Polish Solomon, So sung his poets, all but one, Who, being unpension'd, made a satire, And boasted that he could not flatter.150 It was a court of jousts and mimes,[133] Where every courtier tried at rhymes; Even I for once produced some verses, And sign'd my odes 'Despairing Thyrsis.[134]' There was a certain Palatine,[135]155 A count of far and high descent, Rich as a salt or silver mine; And he was proud, ye may divine, As if from heaven he had been sent. He had such wealth in blood and ore160 As few could match beneath the throne; And he would gaze upon his store, And o'er his pedigree would pore, Until by some confusion led, Which almost look'd like want of head,165 He thought their merits were his own. His wife was not of his opinion— His junior she by thirty years— Grew daily tired of his dominion; And, after wishes, hopes, and fears,170 To virtue a few farewell tears, A restless dream or two, some glances At Warsaw's youth, some songs, and dances, Awaited but the usual chances, (Those happy accidents which render175 The coldest dames so very tender,) To deck her Count with titles given, 'Tis said, as passports into heaven; But, strange to say, they rarely boast Of these, who have deserved them most.180

V

"I was a goodly stripling then; At seventy years I so may say, That there were few, or boys or men, Who, in my dawning time of day, Of vassal or of knight's degree,185 Could vie in vanities with me; For I had strength, youth, gaiety, A port, not like to this ye see, But as smooth as all is rugged now; For time, and care, and war, have plough'd190 My very soul from out my brow; And thus I should be disavow'd By all my kind and kin, could they Compare my day and yesterday. This change was wrought, too, long ere age195 Had ta'en my features for his page: With years, ye know, have not declined My strength, my courage, or my mind, Or at this hour I should not be Telling old tales beneath a tree,200 With starless skies my canopy. But let me on: Theresa's form— Methinks it glides before me now, Between me and yon chestnut's bough, The memory is so quick and warm;205 And yet I find no words to tell The shape of her I loved so well. She had the Asiatic eye, Such as our Turkish neighbourhood, Hath mingled with our Polish blood,210 Dark as above us is the sky; But through it stole a tender light, Like the first moonrise of midnight; Large, dark, and swimming in the stream, Which seem'd to melt to its own beam;215 All love, half languor, and half fire, Like saints that at the stake expire, And lift their raptured looks on high As though it were a joy to die;— A brow like a midsummer lake,220 Transparent with the sun therein, When waves no murmur dare to make, And heaven beholds her face within; A cheek and lip—but why proceed? I loved her then—I love her still;225 And such as I am, love indeed In fierce extremes—in good and ill; But still we love even in our rage, And haunted to our very age With the vain shadow of the past,230 As is Mazeppa to the last.

VI

"We met—we gazed—I saw, and sigh'd, She did not speak, and yet replied: There are ten thousand tones and signs We hear and see, but none defines—235 Involuntary sparks of thought, Which strike from out the heart o'erwrought[136] And form a strange intelligence Alike mysterious and intense, Which link the burning chain that binds,240 Without their will, young hearts and minds: Conveying, as the electric wire, We know not how, the absorbing fire.— I saw, and sigh'd—in silence wept, And still reluctant distance kept,245 Until I was made known to her, And we might then and there confer Without suspicion—then, even then, I long'd, and was resolved to speak; But on my lips they died again,250 The accents tremulous and weak, Until one hour.—There is a game, A frivolous and foolish play, Wherewith we while away the day; It is—I have forgot the name—255 And we to this, it seems, were set, By some strange chance, which I forget: I reckon'd not if I won or lost, It was enough for me to be So near to hear, and oh! to see260 The being whom I loved the most. I watch'd her as a sentinel, (May ours this dark night watch as well!) Until I saw, and thus it was, That she was pensive, nor perceived265 Her occupation, nor was grieved Nor glad to lose or gain; but still Play'd on for hours, as if her will Yet bound her to the place, though not That hers might be the winning lot.270 Then through my brain the thought did pass Even as a flash of lightning there, That there was something in her air Which would not doom me to despair; And on the thought my words broke forth,275 All incoherent as they were— Their eloquence was little worth, But yet she listen'd—'tis enough— Who listens once will listen twice; Her heart, be sure, is not of ice,280 And one refusal no rebuff.

VII

"I loved, and was beloved again— They tell me, sire, you never knew Those gentle frailties; if 'tis true, I shorten all my joy or pain;285 To you 'twould seem absurd as vain; But all men are not born to reign, Or o'er their passions, or as you Thus o'er themselves and nations too. I am—or rather was—a prince,290 A chief of thousands, and could lead Them on where each would foremost bleed; But could not o'er myself evince The like control.—But to resume: I loved, and was beloved again;295 In sooth, it is a happy doom, But yet where happiest ends in pain.— We met in secret, and the hour Which led me to that lady's bower Was fiery Expectation's dower.300 My days and nights were nothing—all Except that hour which doth recall In the long lapse from youth to age No other like itself—I'd give The Ukraine back again to live305 It o'er once more—and be a page, The happy page, who was the lord Of one soft heart and his own sword, And had no other gem nor wealth Save nature's gift of youth and health.—310 We met in secret—doubly sweet, Some say, they find it so to meet; I know not that—I would have given My life but to have call'd her mine In the full view of earth and heaven;315 For I did oft and long repine That we could only meet by stealth.

VIII

"For lovers there are many eyes, And such there were on us;—the devil On such occasions should be civil—320 The devil!—I'm loth to do him wrong, It might be some untoward saint, Who would not be at rest too long But to his pious bile gave vent— But one fair night, some lurking spies325 Surprised and seized us both. The Count was something more than wroth— I was unarm'd; but if in steel, All cap-à-pie[137] from head to heel, What 'gainst their numbers could I do?—330 'Twas near his castle, far away From city or from succour near, And almost on the break of day; I did not think to see another, My moments seem'd reduced to few;335 And with one prayer to Mary Mother, And, it may be, a saint or two, As I resign'd me to my fate, They led me to the castle gate: Theresa's doom I never knew,340 Our lot was henceforth separate— An angry man, ye may opine, Was he, the proud Count Palatine; And he had reason good to be, But he was most enraged lest such345 An accident should chance to touch Upon his future pedigree; Nor less amazed, that such a blot His noble 'scutcheon[138] should have got, While he was highest of his line;350 Because unto himself he seem'd The first of men, nor less he deem'd In others' eyes, and most in mine. 'Sdeath! with a page—perchance a king Had reconciled him to the thing;355 But with a stripling of a page— I felt—but cannot paint his rage.

IX

"'Bring forth the horse!'—the horse was brought; In truth, he was a noble steed, A Tartar of the Ukraine breed,360 Who look'd as though the speed of thought Were in his limbs; but he was wild, Wild as the wild deer, and untaught, With spur and bridle undefined— 'Twas but a day he had been caught;365 And snorting, with erected mane, And struggling fiercely, but in vain, In the full foam of wrath and dread To me the desert-born was led. They bound me on, that menial throng,370 Upon his back with many a thong; They loosed him with a sudden lash— Away!—away!—and on we dash!— Torrents less rapid and less rash.

X

"Away!—away!—My breath was gone—375 I saw not where he hurried on: 'Twas scarcely yet the break of day, And on he foam'd—away!—away!— The last of human sounds which rose, As I was darted from my foes,380 Was the wild shout of savage laughter, Which on the wind came roaring after A moment from that rabble rout: With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head, And snapp'd the cord, which to the mane385 Had bound my neck in lieu of rein, And writhing half my form about, Howl'd back my curse; but 'midst the tread, The thunder of my courser's speed, Perchance they did not hear nor heed:390 It vexes me—for I would fain Have paid their insult back again. I paid it well in after days: There is not of that castle gate, Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight,395 Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left; Nor of its fields a blade of grass, Save what grows on a ridge of wall Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall; And many a time ye there might pass,400 Nor dream that e'er that fortress was: I saw its turrets in a blaze, Their crackling battlements all cleft, And the hot lead pour down like rain From off the scorch'd and blackening roof,405 Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. They little thought that day of pain, When launch'd, as on the lightning's flash, They bade me to destruction dash, That one day I should come again,410 With twice five thousand horse, to thank The Count for his uncourteous ride. They play'd me then a bitter prank, When, with the wild horse for my guide, They bound me to his foaming flank:415 At length I play'd them one as frank— For time at last sets all things even— And if we do but watch the hour, There never yet was human power Which could evade, if unforgiven,420 The patient search and vigil long Of him who treasures up a wrong.

XI

"Away, away, my steed and I, Upon the pinions of the wind. All human dwellings left behind;425 We sped like meteors through the sky, When with its crackling sound the night Is chequer'd with the northern light. Town—village—none were on our track, But a wild plain of far extent,430 And bounded by a forest black; And, save the scarce seen battlement On distant heights of some stronghold, Against the Tartars built of old, No trace of man: the year before435 A Turkish army had march'd o'er; And where the Spahi's[139] hoof hath trod, The verdure flies the bloody sod. The sky was dull, and dim, and gray, And a low breeze crept moaning by—440 I could have answer'd with a sigh— But fast we fled, away, away— And I could neither sigh nor pray; And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain Upon the courser's bristling mane;445 But, snorting still with rage and fear, He flew upon his far career. At times I almost thought, indeed, He must have slacken'd in his speed; But no—my bound and slender frame450 Was nothing to his angry might, And merely like a spur became: Each motion which I made to free My swoln limbs from their agony Increased his fury and affright:455 I tried my voice,—'twas faint and low, But yet he swerved as from a blow; And, starting to each accent, sprang As from a sudden trumpet's clang. Meantime my cords were wet with gore,460 Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er; And in my tongue the thirst became A something fierier far than flame.

XII

"We near'd the wild wood—'twas so wide, I saw no bounds on either side;465 'Twas studded with old sturdy trees, That bent not to the roughest breeze Which howls down from Siberia's waste And strips the forest in its haste,— But these were few and far between,470 Set thick with shrubs more young and green, Luxuriant with their annual leaves, Ere strown by those autumnal eves That nip the forest's foliage dead, Discolour'd with a lifeless red,475 Which stands thereon like stiffen'd gore Upon the slain when battle's o'er, And some long winter's night hath shed Its frost o'er every tombless head, So cold and stark the raven's beak480 May peck unpierced each frozen cheek. 'Twas a wild waste of underwood, And here and there a chestnut stood, The strong oak, and the hardy pine; But far apart—and well it were,485 Or else a different lot were mine— The boughs gave way, and did not tear My limbs; and I found strength to bear My wounds already scarr'd with cold— My bonds forbade to loose my hold.490 We rustled through the leaves like wind, Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind; By night I heard them on the track, Their troop came hard upon our back, With their long gallop which can tire495 The hound's deep hate and hunter's fire: Where'er we flew they follow'd on, Nor left us with the morning sun; Behind I saw them, scarce a rood, At daybreak winding through the wood,500 And through the night had heard their feet Their stealing, rustling step repeat. Oh! how I wish'd for spear or sword, At least to die amidst the horde, And perish—if it must be so—505 At bay, destroying many a foe. When first my courser's race begun, I wish'd the goal already won; But now I doubted strength and speed. Vain doubt! his swift and savage breed510 Had nerved him like the mountain-roe; Nor faster falls the blinding snow Which whelms the peasant near the door Whose threshold he shall cross no more, Bewilder'd with the dazzling blast,515 Than through the forest-paths he past— Untired, untamed, and worse than wild; All furious as a favour'd child Balk'd of its wish; or fiercer still— A woman piqued—who has her will.520

XIII

"The wood was past; 'twas more than noon, But chill the air although in June; Or it might be my veins ran cold— Prolong'd endurance tames the bold; And I was then not what I seem,525 But headlong as a wintry stream, And wore my feelings out before I well could count their causes o'er. And what with fury, fear, and wrath, The tortures which beset my path,530 Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress, Thus bound in nature's nakedness, (Sprung from a race whose rising blood When stirr'd beyond its calmer mood, And trodden hard upon, is like535 The rattlesnake's in act to strike,) What marvel if this worn-out trunk Beneath its woes a moment sunk? The earth gave way, the skies roll'd round, I seem'd to sink upon the ground;540 But err'd, for I was fastly bound. My heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sore, And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more; The skies spun like a mighty wheel; I saw the trees like drunkards reel,545 And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes, Which saw no farther: he who dies Can die no more than then I died. O'ertortured by that ghastly ride, I felt the blackness come and go,550 And strove to wake; but could not make My senses climb up from below: I felt as on a plank at sea, When all the waves that dash o'er thee, At the same time upheave and whelm,555 And hurl thee towards a desert realm. My undulating life was as The fancied lights that flitting pass Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when Fever begins upon the brain;560 But soon it pass'd, with little pain, But a confusion worse than such: I own that I should deem it much, Dying, to feel the same again; And yet I do suppose we must565 Feel far more ere we turn to dust: No matter; I have bared my brow Full in Death's face—before—and now.

XIV

"My thoughts came back; where was I? Cold, And numb, and giddy: pulse by pulse570 Life reassumed its lingering hold, And throb by throb: till grown a pang Which for a moment would convulse, My blood reflow'd though thick and chill; My ear with uncouth[140] noises rang,575 My heart began once more to thrill; My sight return'd, though dim, alas! And thicken'd, as it were, with glass. Methought the dash of waves was nigh: There was a gleam too of the sky,580 Studded with stars;—it is no dream; The wild horse swims the wilder stream! The bright broad river's gushing tide Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide, And we are half-way, struggling o'er585 To yon unknown and silent shore. The waters broke my hollow trance, And with a temporary strength My stiffen'd limbs were rebaptized. My courser's broad breast proudly braves590 And dashes off the ascending waves, And onward we advance! We reach the slippery shore at length, A haven I but little prized, For all behind was dark and drear,595 And all before was night and fear. How many hours of night or day In those suspended pangs I lay, I could not tell; I scarcely knew If this were human breath I drew.600

XV

"With glossy skin, and dripping mane, And reeling limbs, and reeking flank, The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain Up the repelling bank. We gain the top: a boundless plain605 Spreads through the shadow of the night, And onward, onward, onward, seems, Like precipices in our dreams, To stretch beyond the sight; And here and there a speck of white,610 Or scatter'd spot of dusky green, In masses broke into the light, As rose the moon upon my right. But nought distinctly seen In the dim waste would indicate615 The omen of a cottage gate; No twinkling taper from afar Stood like a hospitable star; Not even an ignis-fatuus[141] rose To make him merry with my woes:620 That very cheat had cheer'd me then! Although detected, welcome still, Reminding me, through every ill, Of the abodes of men.

XVI

"Onward we went—but slack and slow;625 His savage force at length o'erspent, The drooping courser, faint and low, All feebly foaming went. A sickly infant had had power To guide him forward in that hour;630 But useless all to me. His new-born tameness nought avail'd— My limbs were bound; my force had fail'd, Perchance, had they been free. With feeble effort still I tried635 To rend the bonds so starkly tied— But still it was in vain; My limbs were only wrung the more, And soon the idle strife gave o'er, Which but prolong'd their pain.640 The dizzy race seem'd almost done, Although no goal was nearly won: Some streaks announced the coming sun— How slow, alas! he came! Methought that mist of dawning gray645 Would never dapple into day; How heavily it roll'd away— Before the eastern flame Rose crimson, and deposed the stars, And call'd the radiance from their cars,650 And filled the earth, from his deep throne, With lonely lustre, all his own.

XVII

"Up rose the sun; the mists were curl'd Back from the solitary world Which lay around—behind—before;655 What booted it to traverse o'er Plain, forest, river? Man nor brute, Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot, Lay in the wild luxuriant soil; No sign of travel—none of toil;660 The very air was mute; And not an insect's shrill small horn, Nor matin bird's new voice was borne From herb nor thicket. Many a werst,[142] Panting as if his heart would burst,665 The weary brute still stagger'd on; And still we were—or seem'd—alone. At length, while reeling on our way, Methought I heard a courser neigh From out yon tuft of blackening firs.670 Is it the wind those branches stirs? No, no! from out the forest prance A trampling troop; I see them come! In one vast squadron they advance! I strove to cry—my lips were dumb.675 The steeds rush on in plunging pride; But where are they the reins to guide? A thousand horse—and none to ride! With flowing tail, and flying mane, Wide nostrils—never stretched by pain,680 Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein, And feet that iron never shod, And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod, A thousand horse, the wild, the free, Like waves that follow o'er the sea,685 Came thickly thundering on, As if our faint approach to meet. The sight re-nerved my courser's feet, A moment staggering, feebly fleet, A moment, with a faint low neigh,690 He answer'd, and then fell; With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, And reeking limbs immoveable; His first and last career is done! On came the troop—they saw him stoop,695 They saw me strangely bound along His back with many a bloody thong: They stop—they start—they snuff the air, Gallop a moment here and there, Approach, retire, wheel round and round,700 Then plunging back with sudden bound, Headed by one black mighty steed Who seem'd the patriarch of his breed, Without a single speck or hair Of white upon his shaggy hide.705 They snort—they foam—neigh—swerve aside, And backward to the forest fly, By instinct, from a human eye.— They left me there to my despair, Link'd to the dead and stiffening wretch,710 Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch, Relieved from that unwonted weight, From whence I could not extricate Nor him nor me—and there we lay The dying on the dead!715 I little deem'd another day Would see my houseless, helpless head.

"And there from morn till twilight bound, I felt the heavy hours toil round, With just enough of life to see720 My last of suns go down on me, In hopeless certainty of mind, That makes us feel at length resign'd To that which our foreboding years Presents the worst and last of fears725 Inevitable—even a boon, Nor more unkind for coming soon; Yet shunn'd and dreaded with such care, As if it only were a snare That prudence might escape:730 At times both wish'd for and implored, At times sought with self-pointed sword, Yet still a dark and hideous close To even intolerable woes, And welcome in no shape.735 And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure, They who have revell'd beyond measure In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure, Die calm, or calmer oft than he Whose heritage was misery:740 For he who hath in turn run through All that was beautiful and new, Hath nought to hope, and nought to leave; And, save the future (which is view'd Not quite as men are base or good,745 But as their nerves may be endued,) With nought perhaps to grieve:— The wretch still hopes his woes must end, And Death, whom he should deem his friend, Appears, to his distemper'd eyes,750 Arrived to rob him of his prize, The tree of his new Paradise. To-morrow would have given him all, Repaid his pangs, repair'd his fall; To-morrow would have been the first755 Of days no more deplored or curst, But bright, and long, and beckoning years, Seen dazzling through the mist of tears, Guerdon of many a painful hour; To-morrow would have given him power760 To rule, to shine, to smite, to save— And must it dawn upon his grave?

XVIII

"The sun was sinking—still I lay Chain'd to the chill and stiffening steed; I thought to mingle there our clay;765 And my dim eyes of death had need, No hope arose of being freed. I cast my last looks up the sky, And there between me and the sun I saw the expecting raven fly,770 Who scarce would wait till both should die Ere his repast begun. He flew, and perch'd, then flew once more, And each time nearer than before; I saw his wing through twilight flit,775 And once so near me he alit I could have smote, but lack'd the strength; But the slight motion of my hand, And feeble scratching of the sand, The exerted throat's faint struggling noise,780 Which scarcely could be call'd a voice, Together scared him off at length.— I know no more—my latest dream Is something of a lovely star Which fix'd my dull eyes from afar,785 And went and came with wandering beam, And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense Sensation of recurring sense, And then subsiding back to death, And then again a little breath,790 A little thrill, a short suspense, An icy sickness curdling o'er My heart, and sparks that cross'd my brain— A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, A sigh, and nothing more.795

XIX

"I woke—Where was I?—Do I see A human face look down on me? And doth a roof above me close? Do these limbs on a couch repose? Is this a chamber where I lie?800 And is it mortal, yon bright eye That watches me with gentle glance? I closed my own again once more, As doubtful that the former trance Could not as yet be o'er.805 A slender girl, long-hair'd, and tall, Sate watching by the cottage wall: The sparkle of her eye I caught, Even with my first return of thought; For ever and anon she threw810 A prying, pitying glance on me With her black eyes so wild and free. I gazed, and gazed, until I knew No vision it could be,— But that I lived, and was released815 From adding to the vulture's feast. And when the Cossack maid beheld My heavy eyes at length unseal'd, She smiled—and I essay'd to speak, But fail'd—and she approach'd, and made820 With lip and finger signs that said, I must not strive as yet to break The silence, till my strength should be Enough to leave my accents free; And then her hand on mine she laid,825 And smooth'd the pillow for my head, And stole along on tiptoe tread, And gently oped the door, and spake In whispers—ne'er was voice so sweet! Even music follow'd her light feet;—830 But those she call'd were not awake, And she went forth; but, ere she pass'd, Another look on me she cast, Another sign she made, to say, That I had nought to fear, that all835 Were near at my command or call, And she would not delay Her due return:—while she was gone, Methought I felt too much alone.

XX

"She came with mother and with sire—840 What need of more?—I will not tire With long recital of the rest, Since I became the Cossack's guest. They found me senseless on the plain— They bore me to the nearest hut—845 They brought me into life again— Me—one day o'er their realm to reign! Thus the vain fool who strove to glut His rage, refining on my pain, Sent me forth to the wilderness,850 Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone, To pass the desert to a throne,— What mortal his own doom may guess?— Let none despond, let none despair! To-morrow the Borysthenes855 May see our coursers graze at ease Upon his Turkish bank,—and never Had I such welcome for a river As I shall yield when safely there. Comrades, good night!"—The Hetman threw860 His length beneath the oak-tree shade, With leafy couch already made, A bed nor comfortless nor new To him who took his rest whene'er The hour arrived, no matter where:865 His eyes the hastening slumbers steep. And if ye marvel Charles forgot To thank his tale he wonder'd not,— The king had been an hour asleep.

[THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB]

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.