IMPORTANT NOTICE.

Image unavailable:

Image unavailable: The Earliest Map of Boston Bay and the Settlements of the Pilgrims. Direction North is Toward the Right Hand.The Earliest Map of Boston Bay and the Settlements of the Pilgrims.Direction North is Toward the Right Hand.

IMPORTANT NOTICE.The previous page completes the title volume of this book. The publishers include the following extra pages, not pertinent to the title, in order to make a book of sufficient thickness to conform with the series in which this book is published.

The previous page completes the title volume of this book. The publishers include the following extra pages, not pertinent to the title, in order to make a book of sufficient thickness to conform with the series in which this book is published.

OfPrometheus, how undauntedOn Olympus’ shining bastionsHis audacious foot he planted,Myths are told and songs are chaunted,Full of promptings and suggestions.Beautiful is the traditionOf that flight through heavenly portals,The old classic superstitionOf the theft and the transmissionOf the fire of the Immortals!First the deed of noble daring,Born of heavenward aspiration,Then the fire with mortals sharing,Then the vulture,—the despairingCry of pain on crags of Caucasian.All is but a symbol paintedOf the Poet, Prophet, Seer;Only those are crowned and saintedWho with grief have been acquainted,Making nations nobler, freer.In their feverish exultations,In their triumph and their yearnings,In their passionate pulsations,In their words among the nations,The Promethean fire is burning.Shall it, then, be unavailing,All this toil for human culture?Through the cloud-rack, dark and trailing,Must they see above them sailingO’er life’s barren crags the vulture?Such a fate as this was Dante’s,By defeat and exile maddened;Thus were Milton and Cervantes,Nature’s priests and Corybantes,By affliction touched and saddened.But the glories so transcendentThat around their memories cluster,And, on all their steps attendant,Make their darkened lives resplendentWith such gleams of inward lustre!All the melodies mysterious,Through the dreary darkness chaunted;Thoughts in attitudes imperious,Voices soft, and deep, and serious,Words that whispered, songs that haunted!All the soul in rapt suspension,All the quivering, palpitatingChords of life in utmost tension,With the fervor of invention,With the rapture of creating!Ah, Prometheus! heaven-scaling!In such hours of exultationEven the faintest heart, unquailing,Might behold the vulture sailingRound the cloudy crags Caucasian!Though to all there is not givenStrength for such sublime endeavor,Thus to scale the walls of heaven,And to leaven with fiery leavenAll the hearts of men for ever;Yet all bards, whose hearts unblightedHonor and believe the presage,Hold aloft their torches lighted,Gleaming through the realms benighted,As they onward bear the message!

OfPrometheus, how undauntedOn Olympus’ shining bastionsHis audacious foot he planted,Myths are told and songs are chaunted,Full of promptings and suggestions.

Beautiful is the traditionOf that flight through heavenly portals,The old classic superstitionOf the theft and the transmissionOf the fire of the Immortals!

First the deed of noble daring,Born of heavenward aspiration,Then the fire with mortals sharing,Then the vulture,—the despairingCry of pain on crags of Caucasian.

All is but a symbol paintedOf the Poet, Prophet, Seer;Only those are crowned and saintedWho with grief have been acquainted,Making nations nobler, freer.

In their feverish exultations,In their triumph and their yearnings,In their passionate pulsations,In their words among the nations,The Promethean fire is burning.

Shall it, then, be unavailing,All this toil for human culture?Through the cloud-rack, dark and trailing,Must they see above them sailingO’er life’s barren crags the vulture?

Such a fate as this was Dante’s,By defeat and exile maddened;Thus were Milton and Cervantes,Nature’s priests and Corybantes,By affliction touched and saddened.

But the glories so transcendentThat around their memories cluster,And, on all their steps attendant,Make their darkened lives resplendentWith such gleams of inward lustre!

All the melodies mysterious,Through the dreary darkness chaunted;Thoughts in attitudes imperious,Voices soft, and deep, and serious,Words that whispered, songs that haunted!

All the soul in rapt suspension,All the quivering, palpitatingChords of life in utmost tension,With the fervor of invention,With the rapture of creating!

Ah, Prometheus! heaven-scaling!In such hours of exultationEven the faintest heart, unquailing,Might behold the vulture sailingRound the cloudy crags Caucasian!

Though to all there is not givenStrength for such sublime endeavor,Thus to scale the walls of heaven,And to leaven with fiery leavenAll the hearts of men for ever;

Yet all bards, whose hearts unblightedHonor and believe the presage,Hold aloft their torches lighted,Gleaming through the realms benighted,As they onward bear the message!

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

Saint Augustine!well hast thou said,That of our vices we can frameA ladder, if we will but treadBeneath our feet each deed of shame!

All common things, each day’s events,That with the hour begin and end,Our pleasures and our discontents,Are rounds by which we may ascend.

The low desire, the base design,That makes another’s virtues less;The revel of the ruddy wine,And all occasions of excess;

The longing for ignoble things;The strife for triumph more than truth;The hardening of the heart, that bringsIrreverence for the dreams of youth;

All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds,That have their roots in thoughts of ill;Whatever hinders or impedesThe action of the nobler will:—

All these must first be trampled downBeneath our feet, if we would gainIn the bright fields of fair renownThe right of eminent domain.

We have not wings, we cannot soar;But we have feet to scale and climbBy slow degrees, by more and more,The cloudy summits of our time.

The mighty pyramids of stoneThat wedge-like cleave the desert airs,When nearer seen, and better known,Are but gigantic flights of stairs.

The distant mountains, that uprearTheir solid bastions to the skies,Are crossed by pathways, that appearAs we to higher levels rise.

The heights by great men reached and keptWere not attained by sudden flight,But they, while their companions slept,Were toiling upward in the night.

Standing on what too long we boreWith shoulders bent and downcast eyes,We may discern—unseen before—A pathway to higher destinies.

Nor deem the irrevocable Past,As wholly wasted, wholly vain,If, rising on its wrecks, at lastTo something nobler we attain.

InMather’s Magnalia Christi,Of the old colonial time,May be found in prose the legendThat is here set down in rhyme.A ship sailed from New Haven,And the keen and frosty airs,That filled her sails at parting,Were heavy with good men’s prayers.“O Lord! if it be thy pleasure”—Thus prayed the old divine—“To bury our friends in the ocean,Take them, for they are thine!”But Master Lamberton muttered,And under his breath said he,“This ship is so crank and waltyI fear our grave she will be!”And the ships that came from England,When the winter months were gone,Brought no tidings of this vesselNor of Master Lamberton.This put the people to prayingThat the Lord would let them hearWhat in his greater wisdomHe had done with friends so dear.And at last their prayers were answered:—It was in the month of June,An hour before the sunsetOf a windy afternoon,When, steadily steering landward,A ship was seen below,And they knew it was Lamberton, Master,Who sailed so long ago.On she came, with a cloud of canvas,Right against the wind that blew,Until the eye could distinguishThe faces of the crew.Then fell her straining topmasts,Hanging tangled in the shrouds,And her sails were loosened and lifted,And blown away like clouds.And the masts, with all their rigging,Fell slowly, one by one,And the hulk dilated and vanished,As a sea-mist in the sun!And the people who saw this marvelEach said unto his friend,That this was the mould of their vessel,And thus her tragic end.And the pastor of the villageGave thanks to God in prayer,That, to quiet their troubled spirits,He had sent his Ship of Air.

InMather’s Magnalia Christi,Of the old colonial time,May be found in prose the legendThat is here set down in rhyme.

A ship sailed from New Haven,And the keen and frosty airs,That filled her sails at parting,Were heavy with good men’s prayers.

“O Lord! if it be thy pleasure”—Thus prayed the old divine—“To bury our friends in the ocean,Take them, for they are thine!”

But Master Lamberton muttered,And under his breath said he,“This ship is so crank and waltyI fear our grave she will be!”

And the ships that came from England,When the winter months were gone,Brought no tidings of this vesselNor of Master Lamberton.

This put the people to prayingThat the Lord would let them hearWhat in his greater wisdomHe had done with friends so dear.

And at last their prayers were answered:—It was in the month of June,An hour before the sunsetOf a windy afternoon,

When, steadily steering landward,A ship was seen below,And they knew it was Lamberton, Master,Who sailed so long ago.

On she came, with a cloud of canvas,Right against the wind that blew,Until the eye could distinguishThe faces of the crew.

Then fell her straining topmasts,Hanging tangled in the shrouds,And her sails were loosened and lifted,And blown away like clouds.

And the masts, with all their rigging,Fell slowly, one by one,And the hulk dilated and vanished,As a sea-mist in the sun!

And the people who saw this marvelEach said unto his friend,That this was the mould of their vessel,And thus her tragic end.

And the pastor of the villageGave thanks to God in prayer,That, to quiet their troubled spirits,He had sent his Ship of Air.

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

A mistwas driving down the British Channel,And through the window-panes, on floor and panel,Streamed the red autumn sun.The day was just begun,

It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon,And the white sails of ships;And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannonHailed it with feverish lips.

Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and DoverWere all alert that day,To see the French war-steamers speeding over,When the fog cleared away.

Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions,Their cannon, through the night,Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance,The sea-coast opposite.

And now they roared at drum-beat from their stationsOn every citadel;Each answering each, with morning salutations,That all was well.

And down the coast, all taking up the burden,Replied the distant forts,As if to summon from his sleep the WardenAnd Lord of the Cinque Ports.

Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure,No drum-beat from the wall,No morning gun from the black fort’s embrasure,Awaken with its call!

No more, surveying with an eye impartialThe long line of the coast,Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field MarshalBe seen upon his post!

For in the night, unseen, a single warrior,In sombre harness mailed,Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer,The rampart wall has scaled.

He passed into the chamber of the sleeper,The dark and silent room,And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper,The silence and the gloom.

He did not pause to parley or dissemble,But smote the Warden hoar;Ah! what a blow! that made all England trembleAnd groan from shore to shore.

Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited,The sun rose bright o’erhead;Nothing in Nature’s aspect intimatedThat a great man was dead.

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

Allhouses wherein men have lived and diedAre haunted houses. Through the open doorsThe harmless phantoms on their errands glide,With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

We meet them at the door-way, on the stair,Along the passages they come and go,Impalpable impressions on the air,A sense of something moving to and fro.

There are more guests at table than the hostsInvited; the illuminated hallIs thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,As silent as the pictures on the wall.

The stranger at my fireside cannot seeThe forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;He but perceives what is; while unto meAll that has been is visible and clear.

We have no title-deeds to house or lands;Owners and occupants of earlier datesFrom graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,And hold in mortmain still their old estates.

The spirit-world around this world of senseFloats like an atmosphere, and everywhereWafts through these earthly mists and vapors denseA vital breath of more ethereal air.

Our little lives are kept in equipoiseBy opposite attractions and desires;The struggle of the instinct that enjoys,And the more noble instinct that aspires.

These perturbations, this perpetual jarOf earthly wants and aspirations high,Come from the influence of an unseen star,An undiscovered planet in our sky.

And as the moon from some dark gate of cloudThrows o’er the sea a floating bridge of light,Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowdInto the realm of mystery and night,—

So from the world of spirits there descendsA bridge of light, connecting it with this,O’er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.

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

Inthe village churchyard she lies,Dust is in her beautiful eyes,No more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs;At her feet and at her headLies a slave to attend the dead,But their dust is white as hers.

Was she a lady of high degree,So much in love with the vanityAnd foolish pomp of this world of ours?Or was it Christian charity,And lowliness and humility,The richest and rarest of all dowers?

Who shall tell us? No one speaks;No color shoots into those cheeks,Either of anger or of pride,At the rude question we have asked;Nor will the mystery be unmaskedBy those who are sleeping at her side.

Hereafter?—And do you think to lookOn the terrible pages of that BookTo find her failings, faults, and errors?Ah, you will then have other cares,In your own short-comings and despairs,In your own secret sins and terrors!

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

Oncethe Emperor Charles of Spain,With his swarthy, grave commanders,I forget in what campaign,Long besieged, in mud and rain,Some old frontier town in Flanders.

Up and down the dreary camp,In great boots of Spanish leather,Striding with a measured tramp,These Hidalgos, dull and damp,Cursed the Frenchman, cursed the weather.

Thus as to and fro they went,Over upland and through hollow,Giving their impatience vent,Perched upon the Emperor’s tent,In her nest, they spied a swallow.

Yes, it was a swallow’s nest,Built of clay and hair of horses,Mane, or tail, or dragoon’s crest,Found on hedge-rows east and west,After skirmish of the forces.

Then an old Hidalgo said,As he twirled his gray mustachio,“Sure this swallow overheadThinks the Emperor’s tent a shed,And the Emperor but a Macho!”

Hearing his imperial nameCoupled with those words of malice,Half in anger, half in shame,Forth the great campaigner cameSlowly from his canvas palace.

“Let no hand the bird molest,”Said he solemnly, “nor hurt her!”Adding then, by way of jest,“Golondrina is my guest,’Tis the wife of some deserter!”

Swift as bowstring speeds a shaft,Through the camp was spread the rumor,And the soldiers, as they quaffedFlemish beer at dinner, laughedAt the Emperor’s pleasant humor.

So unharmed and unafraidSat the swallow still and brooded,Till the constant cannonadeThrough the walls a breach had made,And the siege was thus concluded.

Then the army, elsewhere bent,Struck its tents as if disbanding,Only not the Emperor’s tent,For he ordered, ere he went,Very curtly, “Leave it standing!”

So it stood there all alone,Loosely flapping, torn and tattered,Till the brood was fledged and flown,Singing o’er those walls of stoneWhich the cannon-shot had shattered.

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

Twoangels, one of Life and one of Death,Passed o’er our village as the morning broke;The dawn was on their faces, and beneath,The sombre houses hearsed with plumes of smoke.

Their attitude and aspect were the same,Alike their features and their robes of white;But one was crowned with amaranth, as with flame,And one with asphodels, like flakes of light.

I saw them pause on their celestial way;Then said I, with deep fear and doubt oppressed,“Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betrayThe place where thy beloved are at rest!”

And he who wore the crown of asphodels,Descending at my door, began to knock,And my soul sank within me, as in wellsThe waters sink before an earthquake’s shock.

I recognized the nameless agony,The terror and the tremor and the pain,That oft before had filled and haunted me,And now returned with threefold strength again.

The door I opened to my heavenly guest,And listened, for I thought I heard God’s voice;And, knowing whatsoe’er he sent was best,Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice.

Then with a smile, that filled the house with light,“My errand is not Death, but Life,” he said;And ere I answered, passing out of sight,On his celestial embassy he sped.

’T was at thy door, O friend! and not at mine,The angel with the amaranthine wreath,Pausing, descended, and with voice divine,Whispered a word that had a sound like Death.

Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom,A shadow on those features fair and thin;And softly, from that hushed and darkened room,Two angels issued, where but one went in.

All is of God! If he but wave his hand,The mists collect, the rain falls thick and loud,Till, with a smile of light on sea and land,Lo! he looks back from the departing cloud.

Angels of Life and Death alike are his;Without his leave they pass no threshold o’er;Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this,Against his messengers to shut the door?

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

Inbroad daylight, and at noon,Yesterday I saw the moonSailing high, but faint and white,As a school-boy’s paper kite.

In broad daylight, yesterday,I read a Poet’s mystic lay;And it seemed to me at mostAs a phantom, or a ghost.

But at length the feverish dayLike a passion died away,And the night, serene and still,Fell on village, vale, and hill.

Then the moon, in all her pride,Like a spirit glorified,Filled and overflowed the nightWith revelations of her light.

And the Poet’s song againPassed like music through my brain;Night interpreted to meAll its grace and mystery.

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

Howstrange it seems! These Hebrews in their graves,Close by the street of this fair seaport town,Silent beside the never-silent waves,At rest in all this moving up and down!

The trees are white with dust, that o’er their sleepWave their broad curtains in the south wind’s breath,While underneath such leafy tents they keepThe long, mysterious Exodus of Death.

And these sepulchral stones, so old and brown,That pave with level flags their burial-place,Seem like the tablets of the Law, thrown downAnd broken by Moses at the mountain’s base.

The very names recorded here are strange,Of foreign accent, and of different climes;Alvares and Rivera interchangeWith Abraham and Jacob of old times.

“Blessed be God! for he created Death!”The mourners said, “and Death is rest and peace”;Then added, in the certainty of faith,“And giveth Life that never more shall cease.”

Closed are the portals of their Synagogue,No Psalms of David now the silence break,No Rabbi reads the ancient DecalogueIn the grand dialect the Prophets spake.

Gone are the living, but the dead remain,And not neglected; for a hand unseen,Scattering its bounty, like a summer rain,Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green.

How came they here? What burst of Christian hate,What persecution, merciless and blind,Drove o’er the sea—that desert desolate—These Ishmaels and Hagars of mankind?

They lived in narrow streets and lanes obscure,Ghetto and Judenstrass, in mirk and mire;Taught in the school of patience to endureThe life of anguish and the death of fire.

All their lives long, with the unleavened breadAnd bitter herbs of exile and its fears,The wasting famine of the heart they fed,And slaked its thirst with marah of their tears.

Anathema maranatha! was the cryThat rang from town to town, from street to street;At every gate the accursed MordecaiWas mocked and jeered, and spurned by Christian feet.

Pride and humiliation hand in handWalked with them through the world where’er they went;Trampled and beaten were they as the sand,And yet unshaken as the continent.

For in the background figures vague and vastOf patriarchs and of prophets rose sublime,And all the great traditions of the PastThey saw reflected in the coming time.

And thus forever with reverted lookThe mystic volume of the world they read,Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew book,Till life became a Legend of the Dead.

But ah! what once has been shall be no more!The groaning earth in travail and in painBrings forth its races, but does not restore,And the dead nations never rise again.

Inthe Valley of the VireStill is seen an ancient mill,With its gables quaint and queer,And beneath the window-sill,On the stone,These words alone:“Oliver Basselin lived here.”Far above it, on the steep,Ruined stands the old Chateau;Nothing but the donjon-keepLeft for shelter or for show.Its vacant eyesStare at the skies,Stare at the valley green and deep.Once a convent, old and brown,Looked, but ah! it looks no more,From the neighboring hillside downOn the rushing and the roarOf the streamWhose sunny gleamCheers the little Norman town.In that darksome mill of stone,To the water’s dash and din,Careless, humble, and unknown,Sang the poet BasselinSongs that fillThat ancient millWith a splendor of its own.Never feeling of unrestBroke the pleasant dream he dreamed;Only made to be his nest,All the lovely valley seemed;No desireOf soaring higherStirred or fluttered in his breast.True, his songs were not divine;Were not songs of that high art,Which, as winds do in the pine,Find an answer in each heart;But the mirthOf this green earthLaughed and reveled in his line.From the alehouse and the inn,Opening on the narrow street,Came the loud, convivial din,Singing and applause of feet,The laughing laysThat in those daysSang the poet Basselin.In the castle, cased in steel,Knights, who fought at Agincourt,Watched and waited, spur on heel;But the poet sang for sportSongs that rangAnother clang,Songs that lowlier hearts could feel.In the convent, clad in gray,Sat the monks in lonely cells,Paced the cloisters, knelt to pray,And the poet heard their bells;But his rhymesFound other chimes,Nearer to the earth than they.Gone are all the barons bold,Gone are all the knights and squires,Gone the abbot stern and cold,And the brotherhood of friars;Not a nameRemains to fame,From those mouldering days of old!But the poet’s memory hereOf the landscape makes a part;Like the river, swift and clear,Flows his song through many a heart;Haunting stillThat ancient mill,In the Valley of the Vire.

Inthe Valley of the VireStill is seen an ancient mill,With its gables quaint and queer,And beneath the window-sill,On the stone,These words alone:“Oliver Basselin lived here.”

Far above it, on the steep,Ruined stands the old Chateau;Nothing but the donjon-keepLeft for shelter or for show.Its vacant eyesStare at the skies,Stare at the valley green and deep.

Once a convent, old and brown,Looked, but ah! it looks no more,From the neighboring hillside downOn the rushing and the roarOf the streamWhose sunny gleamCheers the little Norman town.

In that darksome mill of stone,To the water’s dash and din,Careless, humble, and unknown,Sang the poet BasselinSongs that fillThat ancient millWith a splendor of its own.

Never feeling of unrestBroke the pleasant dream he dreamed;Only made to be his nest,All the lovely valley seemed;No desireOf soaring higherStirred or fluttered in his breast.

True, his songs were not divine;Were not songs of that high art,Which, as winds do in the pine,Find an answer in each heart;But the mirthOf this green earthLaughed and reveled in his line.

From the alehouse and the inn,Opening on the narrow street,Came the loud, convivial din,Singing and applause of feet,The laughing laysThat in those daysSang the poet Basselin.

In the castle, cased in steel,Knights, who fought at Agincourt,Watched and waited, spur on heel;But the poet sang for sportSongs that rangAnother clang,Songs that lowlier hearts could feel.

In the convent, clad in gray,Sat the monks in lonely cells,Paced the cloisters, knelt to pray,And the poet heard their bells;But his rhymesFound other chimes,Nearer to the earth than they.

Gone are all the barons bold,Gone are all the knights and squires,Gone the abbot stern and cold,And the brotherhood of friars;Not a nameRemains to fame,From those mouldering days of old!

But the poet’s memory hereOf the landscape makes a part;Like the river, swift and clear,Flows his song through many a heart;Haunting stillThat ancient mill,In the Valley of the Vire.

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

Forth he came, with a martial tread;Firm was his step, erect his head;Victor Galbraith,He who so well the bugle played,Could not mistake the words it said:“Come forth to thy death,Victor Galbraith!”

He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky,He looked at the files of musketry,Victor Galbraith!And he said, with a steady voice and eye,“Take good aim; I am ready to die!”Thus challenges deathVictor Galbraith.

Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and red,Six leaden balls on their errand sped;Victor GalbraithFalls to the ground, but he is not dead;His name was not stamped on those balls of lead,And they only scathVictor Galbraith.

Three balls are in his breast and brain,But he rises out of the dust again,Victor Galbraith!The water he drinks has a bloody stain;“O kill me, and put me out of my pain!”In his agony prayethVictor Galbraith.

Forth dart once more those tongues of flame,And the bugler has died a death of shame,Victor Galbraith!His soul has gone back to whence it came,And no one answers to the name,When the Sergeant saith,“Victor Galbraith!”

Under the walls of MontereyBy night a bugle is heard to play,Victor Galbraith!Through the mist of the valley damp and grayThe sentinels hear the sound, and say,“That is the wraithOf Victor Galbraith!”

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

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,And catch, in sudden gleams,The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,And islands that were the HesperidesOf all my boyish dreams.And the burden of that old song,It murmurs and whispers still:“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

I remember the black wharves and the slips,And the sea-tides tossing free;And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,And the beauty and mystery of the ships,And the magic of the sea.And the voice of that wayward songIs singing and saying still:“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

I remember the bulwarks by the shore,And the fort upon the hill;The sun-rise gun, with its hollow roar,The drum-beat, repeated o’er and o’er,And the bugle wild and shrill.And the music of that old songThrobs in my memory still:“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

I remember the sea-fight far away,How it thundered o’er the tide!And the dead captains, as they layIn their graves, o’erlooking the tranquil bay,Where they in battle died.And the sound of that mournful songGoes through me with a thrill:“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

I can see the breezy dome of groves,The shadows of Deering’s Woods;And the friendships old and the early lovesCome back with a sabbath sound, as of dovesIn quiet neighborhoods.And the verse of that sweet old song,It flutters and murmurs still:“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

I remember the gleams and glooms that dartAcross the schoolboy’s brain;The song and the silence in the heart,That in part are prophecies, and in partAre longings wild and vain.And the voice of that fitful songSings on, and is never still:“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

There are things of which I may not speak;There are dreams that cannot die;There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,And bring a pallor into the cheek,And a mist before the eye.And the words of that fatal songCome over me like a chill:“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Strange to me now are the forms I meetWhen I visit the dear old town;But the native air is pure and sweet,And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street,As they balance up and down,Are singing the beautiful song,Are sighing and whispering still:“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

And Deering’s Woods are fresh and fair,And with joy that is almost painMy heart goes back to wander there,And among the dreams of the days that were,I find my lost youth again.And the strange and beautiful song,The groves are repeating it still:“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Back to Index Next