It was the schooner Hesperus,That sailed the wintry sea;And the skipper had taken his little daughtèr,To bear him company.Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,5Her cheeks like the dawn of day,And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,That ope in the month of May.The skipper he stood beside the helm,His pipe was in his mouth,10And he watched how the veering flaw did blowThe smoke now West, now South.Then up and spake an old sailòr,Had sailed the Spanish Main,"I pray thee, put into yonder port,15For I fear a hurricane."Last night, the moon had a golden ring,And to-night no moon we see!"The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,And a scornful laugh laughed he.20Colder and louder blew the wind,A gale from the Northeast;The snow fell hissing in the brine,And the billows frothed like yeast.Down came the storm, and smote amain,25The vessel in its strength;She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,Then leaped her cable's length."Come hither! come hither! my little daughtèr,And do not tremble so;30For I can weather the roughest gale,That ever wind did blow."He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coatAgainst the stinging blast;He cut a rope from a broken spar,35And bound her to the mast."O father! I hear the church-bells ring,O say, what may it be?""'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"—And he steered for the open sea.40"O father! I hear the sound of guns,O say, what may it be?""Some ship in distress, that cannot liveIn such an angry sea!""O father! I see a gleaming light,45O say, what may it be?"But the father answered never a word,A frozen corpse was he.Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,With his face turned to the skies,50The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snowOn his fixed and glassy eyes.Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayedThat savèd she might be;And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,On the Lake of Galilee.56And fast through the midnight dark and drear,Through the whistling sleet and snow,Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel sweptTowards the reef of Norman's Woe.60And ever the fitful gusts between,A sound came from the land;It was the sound of the trampling surf,On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.The breakers were right beneath her bows,65She drifted a dreary wreck,And a whooping billow swept the crewLike icicles from her deck.She struck where the white and fleecy wavesLooked soft as carded wool,70But the cruel rocks, they gored her sideLike the horns of an angry bull.Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,With the masts went by the board;Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,75Ho! ho! the breakers roared!At daybreak on the bleak sea-beach,A fisherman stood aghast,To see the form of a maiden fair,Lashed close to a drifting mast.80The salt-sea was frozen on her breast,The salt tears in her eyes;And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,On the billows fall and rise.Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,85In the midnight and the snow!Christ save us all from a death like this,On the reef of Norman's Woe!
It was the schooner Hesperus,That sailed the wintry sea;And the skipper had taken his little daughtèr,To bear him company.
Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,5Her cheeks like the dawn of day,And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,That ope in the month of May.
The skipper he stood beside the helm,His pipe was in his mouth,10And he watched how the veering flaw did blowThe smoke now West, now South.
Then up and spake an old sailòr,Had sailed the Spanish Main,"I pray thee, put into yonder port,15For I fear a hurricane.
"Last night, the moon had a golden ring,And to-night no moon we see!"The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,And a scornful laugh laughed he.20
Colder and louder blew the wind,A gale from the Northeast;The snow fell hissing in the brine,And the billows frothed like yeast.
Down came the storm, and smote amain,25The vessel in its strength;She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,Then leaped her cable's length.
"Come hither! come hither! my little daughtèr,And do not tremble so;30For I can weather the roughest gale,That ever wind did blow."
He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coatAgainst the stinging blast;He cut a rope from a broken spar,35And bound her to the mast.
"O father! I hear the church-bells ring,O say, what may it be?""'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"—And he steered for the open sea.40
"O father! I hear the sound of guns,O say, what may it be?""Some ship in distress, that cannot liveIn such an angry sea!"
"O father! I see a gleaming light,45O say, what may it be?"But the father answered never a word,A frozen corpse was he.
Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,With his face turned to the skies,50The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snowOn his fixed and glassy eyes.
Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayedThat savèd she might be;And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,On the Lake of Galilee.56
And fast through the midnight dark and drear,Through the whistling sleet and snow,Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel sweptTowards the reef of Norman's Woe.60
And ever the fitful gusts between,A sound came from the land;It was the sound of the trampling surf,On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.
The breakers were right beneath her bows,65She drifted a dreary wreck,And a whooping billow swept the crewLike icicles from her deck.
She struck where the white and fleecy wavesLooked soft as carded wool,70But the cruel rocks, they gored her sideLike the horns of an angry bull.
Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,With the masts went by the board;Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,75Ho! ho! the breakers roared!
At daybreak on the bleak sea-beach,A fisherman stood aghast,To see the form of a maiden fair,Lashed close to a drifting mast.80
The salt-sea was frozen on her breast,The salt tears in her eyes;And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,On the billows fall and rise.
Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,85In the midnight and the snow!Christ save us all from a death like this,On the reef of Norman's Woe!
Listen, my children, and you shall hearOf the midnight ride of Paul Revere,[308]On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;Hardly a man is now aliveWho remembers that famous day and year.5He said to his friend, "If the British marchBy land or sea from the town to-night,Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry archOf the North Church[309]tower as a signal light,—One, if by land, and two, if by sea;10And I on the opposite shore will be,Ready to ride and spread the alarmThrough every Middlesex village and farm,For the country-folk to be up and arm."Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar15Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,Just as the moon rose over the bay,Where swinging wide at her moorings layThe Somerset, British man-of-war;A phantom ship, with each mast and spar20Across the moon like a prison barAnd a huge black hulk, that was magnifiedBy its own reflection in the tide.Meanwhile his friend, through alley and street,Wanders and watches with eager ears,25Till in the silence around him he hearsThe muster of men at the barrack door,The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,And the measured tread of the grenadiers,Marching down to their boats on the shore.30Then he climbed to the tower of the church,Up the wooden stairs with stealthy tread,To the belfry-chamber overhead,And startled the pigeons from their perchOn the sombre rafters, that round him made35Masses and moving shapes of shade,—Up the trembling ladder, steep and tall,To the highest window in the wall,Where he paused to listen and look downA moment on the roofs of the town,40And the moonlight flowing over all.Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,In their night-encampment on the hill,Wrapped in silence so deep and stillThat he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,45The watchful night-wind, as it wentCreeping along from tent to tent,And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"A moment only he feels the spellOf the place and the hour, and the secret dread50Of the lonely belfry and the dead;For suddenly all his thoughts are bentOn a shadowy something far away,Where the river widens to meet the bay,—A line of black that bends and floats55On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,Booted and spurred, with a heavy strideOn the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.Now he patted his horse's side,60Now gazed at the landscape far and near,Then impetuous, stamped the earth,And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;But mostly he watched with eager searchThe belfry-tower of the Old North Church,65As it rose above the graves on the hill,Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's heightA glimmer, and then a gleam of light!He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,70But lingers and gazes, till full on his sightA second lamp in the belfry burns!A hurry of hoofs in a village street,A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark75Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,The fate of a nation was riding that night;And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,Kindled the land into flame with its heat.80He has left the village and mounted the steep,And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;And under the alders, that skirt its edge,Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,85Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.It was twelve by the village clockWhen he crossed the bridge into Medford[310]town.He heard the crowing of the cock,And the barking of the farmer's dog,90And felt the damp of the river fog,That rises after the sun goes down.It was one by the village clock,When he galloped into Lexington.He saw the gilded weathercock95Swim in the moonlight as he passed,And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,Gaze at him with a spectral glare,As if they already stood aghastAt the bloody work they would look upon.100It was two by the village clock,When he came to the bridge in Concord[311]town.He heard the bleating of the flock,And the twitter of birds among the trees,And felt the breath of the morning breeze105Blowing over the meadows brown.And one was safe and asleep in his bedWho at the bridge would be first to fall,Who that day would be lying dead,Pierced by a British musket-ball.110You know the rest. In the books you have read,How the British Regulars fired and fled,—How the farmers gave them ball for ball,From behind each fence and farmyard wall,Chasing the red-coats down the lane,115Then crossing the fields to emerge againUnder the trees at the turn of the road,And only pausing to fire and load.So through the night rode Paul Revere;And so through the night went his cry of alarm120To every Middlesex village and farm,—A cry of defiance and not of fear,A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,And a word that shall echo forevermore!For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,125Through all our history, to the last,In the hour of darkness and peril and need,The people will waken and listen to hearThe hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,And the midnight message of Paul Revere.130
Listen, my children, and you shall hearOf the midnight ride of Paul Revere,[308]On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;Hardly a man is now aliveWho remembers that famous day and year.5
He said to his friend, "If the British marchBy land or sea from the town to-night,Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry archOf the North Church[309]tower as a signal light,—One, if by land, and two, if by sea;10And I on the opposite shore will be,Ready to ride and spread the alarmThrough every Middlesex village and farm,For the country-folk to be up and arm."
Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar15Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,Just as the moon rose over the bay,Where swinging wide at her moorings layThe Somerset, British man-of-war;A phantom ship, with each mast and spar20Across the moon like a prison barAnd a huge black hulk, that was magnifiedBy its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile his friend, through alley and street,Wanders and watches with eager ears,25Till in the silence around him he hearsThe muster of men at the barrack door,The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,And the measured tread of the grenadiers,Marching down to their boats on the shore.30
Then he climbed to the tower of the church,Up the wooden stairs with stealthy tread,To the belfry-chamber overhead,And startled the pigeons from their perchOn the sombre rafters, that round him made35Masses and moving shapes of shade,—Up the trembling ladder, steep and tall,To the highest window in the wall,Where he paused to listen and look downA moment on the roofs of the town,40And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,In their night-encampment on the hill,Wrapped in silence so deep and stillThat he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,45The watchful night-wind, as it wentCreeping along from tent to tent,And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"A moment only he feels the spellOf the place and the hour, and the secret dread50Of the lonely belfry and the dead;For suddenly all his thoughts are bentOn a shadowy something far away,Where the river widens to meet the bay,—A line of black that bends and floats55On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,Booted and spurred, with a heavy strideOn the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.Now he patted his horse's side,60Now gazed at the landscape far and near,Then impetuous, stamped the earth,And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;But mostly he watched with eager searchThe belfry-tower of the Old North Church,65As it rose above the graves on the hill,Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's heightA glimmer, and then a gleam of light!He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,70But lingers and gazes, till full on his sightA second lamp in the belfry burns!
A hurry of hoofs in a village street,A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark75Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,The fate of a nation was riding that night;And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,Kindled the land into flame with its heat.80
He has left the village and mounted the steep,And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;And under the alders, that skirt its edge,Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,85Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clockWhen he crossed the bridge into Medford[310]town.He heard the crowing of the cock,And the barking of the farmer's dog,90And felt the damp of the river fog,That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,When he galloped into Lexington.He saw the gilded weathercock95Swim in the moonlight as he passed,And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,Gaze at him with a spectral glare,As if they already stood aghastAt the bloody work they would look upon.100
It was two by the village clock,When he came to the bridge in Concord[311]town.He heard the bleating of the flock,And the twitter of birds among the trees,And felt the breath of the morning breeze105Blowing over the meadows brown.And one was safe and asleep in his bedWho at the bridge would be first to fall,Who that day would be lying dead,Pierced by a British musket-ball.110
You know the rest. In the books you have read,How the British Regulars fired and fled,—How the farmers gave them ball for ball,From behind each fence and farmyard wall,Chasing the red-coats down the lane,115Then crossing the fields to emerge againUnder the trees at the turn of the road,And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;And so through the night went his cry of alarm120To every Middlesex village and farm,—A cry of defiance and not of fear,A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,And a word that shall echo forevermore!For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,125Through all our history, to the last,In the hour of darkness and peril and need,The people will waken and listen to hearThe hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,And the midnight message of Paul Revere.130
Of all the rides since the birth of time,Told in story or sung in rhyme,—On Apuleius's Golden Ass,[312]Or one-eyed Calender's horse of brass,[313]Witch astride of a human back,5Islam's prophet on Al-Borák,[314]—The strangest ride that ever was spedWas Ireson's, out from Marblehead!Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart10By the women of Marblehead!Body of turkey, head of owl,Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl,Feathered and ruffled in every part,Skipper Ireson stood in the cart.15Scores of women, old and young,Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue,Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane,Shouting and singing the shrill refrain:"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,20Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrtBy the women o' Morble'ead!"Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips,Girls in bloom of cheek and lips,Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase25Bacchus[315]round some antique vase,Brief of skirt, with ankles bare,Loose of kerchief and loose of hair,With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang,Over and over the Mænads[316]sang:30"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrtBy the women o' Morble'ead!"Small pity for him!—He sailed awayFrom a leaking ship in Chaleur Bay,[317]—35Sailed away from a sinking wreck,With his own town's-people on her deck!"Lay by! lay by!" they called to him.Back he answered, "Sink or swim!Brag of your catch of fish again!"40And off he sailed through the fog and rain!Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,Tarred and feathered and carried in a cartBy the women of Marblehead!Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur45That wreck shall lie forevermore.Mother and sister, wife and maid,Looked from the rocks of MarbleheadOver the moaning and rainy sea,—Looked for the coming that might not be!50What did the winds and the sea-birds sayOf the cruel captain who sailed away?—Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,Tarred and feathered and carried in a cartBy the women of Marblehead!55Through the street, on either side,Up flew windows, doors swung wide;Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray,Treble lent the fish-horn's bray.Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound,60Hulks of old sailors run aground,Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane,And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain:"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt65By the women o' Morble'ead!"Sweetly along the Salem roadBloom of orchard and lilac showed.Little the wicked skipper knewOf the fields so green and the sky so blue.70Riding there in his sorry trim,Like an Indian idol glum and grim,Scarcely he seemed the sound to hearOf voices shouting, far and near:"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,75Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrtBy the women o' Morble'ead!""Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried,—"What to me is this noisy ride?What is the shame that clothes the skin80To the nameless horror that lives within?Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck,And hear a cry from a reeling deck!Hate me and curse me,—I only dreadThe hand of God and the face of the dead!"85Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,Tarred and feathered and carried in a cartBy the women of Marblehead!Then the wife of the skipper lost at seaSaid, "God has touched him! why should we?"90Said an old wife mourning her only son,"Cut the rogue's tether and let him run!"So with soft relentings and rude excuse,Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose,And gave him a cloak to hide him in,95And left him alone with his shame and sin.Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,Tarred and feathered and carried in a cartBy the women of Marblehead!
Of all the rides since the birth of time,Told in story or sung in rhyme,—On Apuleius's Golden Ass,[312]Or one-eyed Calender's horse of brass,[313]Witch astride of a human back,5Islam's prophet on Al-Borák,[314]—The strangest ride that ever was spedWas Ireson's, out from Marblehead!Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart10By the women of Marblehead!
Body of turkey, head of owl,Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl,Feathered and ruffled in every part,Skipper Ireson stood in the cart.15Scores of women, old and young,Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue,Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane,Shouting and singing the shrill refrain:"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,20Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrtBy the women o' Morble'ead!"
Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips,Girls in bloom of cheek and lips,Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase25Bacchus[315]round some antique vase,Brief of skirt, with ankles bare,Loose of kerchief and loose of hair,With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang,Over and over the Mænads[316]sang:30"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrtBy the women o' Morble'ead!"
Small pity for him!—He sailed awayFrom a leaking ship in Chaleur Bay,[317]—35Sailed away from a sinking wreck,With his own town's-people on her deck!"Lay by! lay by!" they called to him.Back he answered, "Sink or swim!Brag of your catch of fish again!"40And off he sailed through the fog and rain!Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,Tarred and feathered and carried in a cartBy the women of Marblehead!
Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur45That wreck shall lie forevermore.Mother and sister, wife and maid,Looked from the rocks of MarbleheadOver the moaning and rainy sea,—Looked for the coming that might not be!50What did the winds and the sea-birds sayOf the cruel captain who sailed away?—Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,Tarred and feathered and carried in a cartBy the women of Marblehead!55
Through the street, on either side,Up flew windows, doors swung wide;Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray,Treble lent the fish-horn's bray.Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound,60Hulks of old sailors run aground,Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane,And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain:"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt65By the women o' Morble'ead!"
Sweetly along the Salem roadBloom of orchard and lilac showed.Little the wicked skipper knewOf the fields so green and the sky so blue.70Riding there in his sorry trim,Like an Indian idol glum and grim,Scarcely he seemed the sound to hearOf voices shouting, far and near:"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,75Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrtBy the women o' Morble'ead!"
"Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried,—"What to me is this noisy ride?What is the shame that clothes the skin80To the nameless horror that lives within?Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck,And hear a cry from a reeling deck!Hate me and curse me,—I only dreadThe hand of God and the face of the dead!"85Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,Tarred and feathered and carried in a cartBy the women of Marblehead!
Then the wife of the skipper lost at seaSaid, "God has touched him! why should we?"90Said an old wife mourning her only son,"Cut the rogue's tether and let him run!"So with soft relentings and rude excuse,Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose,And gave him a cloak to hide him in,95And left him alone with his shame and sin.Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,Tarred and feathered and carried in a cartBy the women of Marblehead!
Up the streets of Aberdeen[318]By the kirk[319]and college greenRode the Laird[320]of Ury.Close behind him, close beside,Foul of mouth and evil-eyed,5Pressed the mob in fury.Flouted him the drunken churl,Jeered at him the serving-girl,Prompt to please her master;And the begging carlin,[321]late10Fed and clothed at Ury's gate,Cursed him as he passed her.Yet, with calm and stately mien,Up the streets of AberdeenCame he slowly riding;15And, to all he saw and heard,Answering not with bitter word,Turning not for chiding.Came a troop with broadswords swinging,Bits and bridles sharply ringing,20Loose and free and froward;Quoth the foremost, 'Ride him down!Push him! prick him! through the townDrive the Quaker coward!'But from out the thickening crowd25Cried a sudden voice and loud:'Barclay! Ho! a Barclay!'And the old man at his sideSaw a comrade, battle tried,Scarred and sunburned darkly,30Who with ready weapon bare,Fronting to the troopers there,Cried aloud: 'God save us,Call ye coward him who stoodAnkle deep in Lützen's[322]blood,35With the brave Gustavus?''Nay, I do not need thy sword,Comrade mine,' said Ury's lord;'Put it up, I pray thee:Passive to his holy will,40Trust I in my Master still,Even though He slay me.'Pledges of thy love and faith,Proved on many a field of death,Not by me are needed.'45Marvelled much that henchman bold,That his laird, so stout of old,Now so meekly pleaded.'Woe's the day!' he sadly said,With a slowly shaking head,50And a look of pity;'Ury's honest lord reviled,Mock of knave and sport of child,In his own good city!'Speak the word, and, master mine,55As we charged on Tilly's[323]line,And his Walloon[324]lancers,Smiting through their midst we'll teachCivil look and decent speechTo these boyish prancers!'60'Marvel not, mine ancient friend,Like beginning, like the end,'Quoth the Laird of Ury;'Is the sinful servant moreThan his gracious Lord who bore65Bonds and stripes in Jewry?'Give me joy that in his nameI can bear, with patient frame,All these vain ones offer;While for them He suffereth long,70Shall I answer wrong with wrong,Scoffing with the scoffer?'Happier I, with loss of all,Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall,With few friends to greet me,75Than when reeve and squire were seen,Riding out from Aberdeen,With bared heads to meet me.'When each goodwife, o'er and o'er,Blessed me as I passed her door;80And the snooded[325]daughter,Through her casement glancing down,Smiled on him who bore renownFrom red fields of slaughter.'Hard to feel the stranger's scoff,85Hard the old friend's falling off,Hard to learn forgiving;But the Lord his own rewards,And his love with theirs accords,Warm and fresh and living.90'Through this dark and stormy nightFaith beholds a feeble lightUp the blackness streaking;Knowing God's own time is best,In a patient hope I rest95For the full day-breaking!'So the Laird of Ury said,Turning slow his horse's headTowards the Tolbooth[326]prison,Where, through iron gates, he heard100Poor disciples of the WordPreach of Christ arisen!Not in vain, Confessor old,Unto us the tale is toldOf thy day of trial;105Every age on him who straysFrom its broad and beaten waysPours its seven-fold vial.Happy he whose inward ear,Angel comfortings can hear,110O'er the rabble's laughter;And while Hatred's fagots burn,Glimpses through the smoke discernOf the good hereafter.Knowing this, that never yet115Share of Truth was vainly setIn the world's wide fallow[327];After hands shall sow the seed,After hands from hill and meadReap the harvests yellow.120Thus, with somewhat of the Seer,Must the moral pioneerFrom the Future borrow;Clothe the waste with dreams of grain,And, on midnight's sky of rain,125Paint the golden morrow!
Up the streets of Aberdeen[318]By the kirk[319]and college greenRode the Laird[320]of Ury.Close behind him, close beside,Foul of mouth and evil-eyed,5Pressed the mob in fury.
Flouted him the drunken churl,Jeered at him the serving-girl,Prompt to please her master;And the begging carlin,[321]late10Fed and clothed at Ury's gate,Cursed him as he passed her.
Yet, with calm and stately mien,Up the streets of AberdeenCame he slowly riding;15And, to all he saw and heard,Answering not with bitter word,Turning not for chiding.
Came a troop with broadswords swinging,Bits and bridles sharply ringing,20Loose and free and froward;Quoth the foremost, 'Ride him down!Push him! prick him! through the townDrive the Quaker coward!'
But from out the thickening crowd25Cried a sudden voice and loud:'Barclay! Ho! a Barclay!'And the old man at his sideSaw a comrade, battle tried,Scarred and sunburned darkly,30
Who with ready weapon bare,Fronting to the troopers there,Cried aloud: 'God save us,Call ye coward him who stoodAnkle deep in Lützen's[322]blood,35With the brave Gustavus?'
'Nay, I do not need thy sword,Comrade mine,' said Ury's lord;'Put it up, I pray thee:Passive to his holy will,40Trust I in my Master still,Even though He slay me.
'Pledges of thy love and faith,Proved on many a field of death,Not by me are needed.'45Marvelled much that henchman bold,That his laird, so stout of old,Now so meekly pleaded.
'Woe's the day!' he sadly said,With a slowly shaking head,50And a look of pity;'Ury's honest lord reviled,Mock of knave and sport of child,In his own good city!
'Speak the word, and, master mine,55As we charged on Tilly's[323]line,And his Walloon[324]lancers,Smiting through their midst we'll teachCivil look and decent speechTo these boyish prancers!'60
'Marvel not, mine ancient friend,Like beginning, like the end,'Quoth the Laird of Ury;'Is the sinful servant moreThan his gracious Lord who bore65Bonds and stripes in Jewry?
'Give me joy that in his nameI can bear, with patient frame,All these vain ones offer;While for them He suffereth long,70Shall I answer wrong with wrong,Scoffing with the scoffer?
'Happier I, with loss of all,Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall,With few friends to greet me,75Than when reeve and squire were seen,Riding out from Aberdeen,With bared heads to meet me.
'When each goodwife, o'er and o'er,Blessed me as I passed her door;80And the snooded[325]daughter,Through her casement glancing down,Smiled on him who bore renownFrom red fields of slaughter.
'Hard to feel the stranger's scoff,85Hard the old friend's falling off,Hard to learn forgiving;But the Lord his own rewards,And his love with theirs accords,Warm and fresh and living.90
'Through this dark and stormy nightFaith beholds a feeble lightUp the blackness streaking;Knowing God's own time is best,In a patient hope I rest95For the full day-breaking!'
So the Laird of Ury said,Turning slow his horse's headTowards the Tolbooth[326]prison,Where, through iron gates, he heard100Poor disciples of the WordPreach of Christ arisen!
Not in vain, Confessor old,Unto us the tale is toldOf thy day of trial;105Every age on him who straysFrom its broad and beaten waysPours its seven-fold vial.
Happy he whose inward ear,Angel comfortings can hear,110O'er the rabble's laughter;And while Hatred's fagots burn,Glimpses through the smoke discernOf the good hereafter.
Knowing this, that never yet115Share of Truth was vainly setIn the world's wide fallow[327];After hands shall sow the seed,After hands from hill and meadReap the harvests yellow.120
Thus, with somewhat of the Seer,Must the moral pioneerFrom the Future borrow;Clothe the waste with dreams of grain,And, on midnight's sky of rain,125Paint the golden morrow!
Up from the meadows rich with corn,Clear in the cool September morn,The clustered spires of Frederick standGreen-walled by the hills of Maryland.Round about them orchards sweep,5Apple and peach tree fruited deep,Fair as the garden of the LordTo the eyes of the famished rebel horde,On that pleasant morn of the early fallWhen Lee marched over the mountain-wall;10Over the mountains winding down,Horse and foot, into Frederick town.Forty flags with their silver stars,Forty flags with their crimson bars,Flapped in the morning wind: the sun15Of noon looked down, and saw not one.Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;Bravest of all in Frederick town,She took up the flag the men hauled down;20In her attic window the staff she set,To show that one heart was loyal yet.Up the street came the rebel tread,Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.Under his slouched hat left and right25He glanced; the old flag met his sight.'Halt!'—the dust-brown ranks stood fast.'Fire!'—out blazed the rifle-blast.It shivered the window, pane and sash;It rent the banner with seam and gash.30Quick, as it fell, from the broken staffDame Barbara snatched the silken scarf.She leaned far out on the window-sill,And shook it forth with a royal will.'Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,35But spare your country's flag,' she said.A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,Over the face of the leader came;The nobler nature within him stirredTo life at that woman's deed and word;40'Who touches a hair of yon gray headDies like a dog! March on!' he said.All day long through Frederick streetSounded the tread of marching feet:All day long that free flag tost45Over the heads of the rebel host.Ever its torn folds rose and fellOn the loyal winds that loved it well;And through the hill-gaps sunset lightShone over it with a warm good-night.50Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,And the Rebel rides on his raids no more.Honor to her! and let a tearFall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.Over Barbara Frietchie's grave,55Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!Peace and order and beauty drawRound thy symbol of light and law;And ever the stars above look downOn thy stars below in Frederick town!60
Up from the meadows rich with corn,Clear in the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick standGreen-walled by the hills of Maryland.
Round about them orchards sweep,5Apple and peach tree fruited deep,
Fair as the garden of the LordTo the eyes of the famished rebel horde,
On that pleasant morn of the early fallWhen Lee marched over the mountain-wall;10
Over the mountains winding down,Horse and foot, into Frederick town.
Forty flags with their silver stars,Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Flapped in the morning wind: the sun15Of noon looked down, and saw not one.
Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;
Bravest of all in Frederick town,She took up the flag the men hauled down;20
In her attic window the staff she set,To show that one heart was loyal yet.
Up the street came the rebel tread,Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.
Under his slouched hat left and right25He glanced; the old flag met his sight.
'Halt!'—the dust-brown ranks stood fast.'Fire!'—out blazed the rifle-blast.
It shivered the window, pane and sash;It rent the banner with seam and gash.30
Quick, as it fell, from the broken staffDame Barbara snatched the silken scarf.
She leaned far out on the window-sill,And shook it forth with a royal will.
'Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,35But spare your country's flag,' she said.
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,Over the face of the leader came;
The nobler nature within him stirredTo life at that woman's deed and word;40
'Who touches a hair of yon gray headDies like a dog! March on!' he said.
All day long through Frederick streetSounded the tread of marching feet:
All day long that free flag tost45Over the heads of the rebel host.
Ever its torn folds rose and fellOn the loyal winds that loved it well;
And through the hill-gaps sunset lightShone over it with a warm good-night.50
Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,And the Rebel rides on his raids no more.
Honor to her! and let a tearFall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.
Over Barbara Frietchie's grave,55Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!
Peace and order and beauty drawRound thy symbol of light and law;
And ever the stars above look downOn thy stars below in Frederick town!60
'Tis like stirring living embers when, at eighty, one remembersAll the achings and the quakings of "the times that tried men's souls[328];"When I talk ofWhigandTory,[329]when I tell theRebelstory,To you the words are ashes, but to me they're burning coals.I had heard the muskets' rattle of the April running battle[330];5Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see their red coats still;But a deadly chill comes o'er me, as the day looms up before me,When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes of Bunker's Hill.'Twas a peaceful summer's morning, when the first thing gave us warning.Was the booming of the cannon from the river and the shore:10"Child," says grandma, "what's the matter, what is all this noise and clatter?Have those scalping Indian devils come to murder us once more?"Poor old soul! my sides were shaking in the midst of all my quaking,To hear her talk of Indians when the guns began to roar:She had seen the burning village, and the slaughter and the pillage,15When the Mohawks[331]killed her father with their bullets through his door.Then I said, "Now, dear old granny, don't you fret and worry any,For I'll soon come back and tell you whether this is work or play;There can't be mischief in it, so I won't be gone a minute"—For a minute then I started. I was gone the livelong day.20No time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass grimacing;Down my hair went as I hurried, tumbling half-way to my heels;God forbid your ever knowing, when there's blood around her flowing,How the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet household feels!In the street I heard a thumping; and I knew it was the stumping25Of the Corporal, our old neighbor, on the wooden leg he wore,With a knot of women round him,—it was lucky I had found him,So I followed with the others, and the Corporal marched before.They were making for the steeple,—the old soldier and his people;The pigeons circled round us as we climbed the creaking stair,30Just across the narrow river—Oh, so close it made me shiver!—Stood a fortress on the hill-top that but yesterday was bare.Not slow our eyes to find it; well we knew who stood behind it,Though the earthwork hid them from us, and the stubborn walls were dumb:Here were sister, wife, and mother, looking wild upon each other,35And their lips were white with terror as they said,The Hour Has Come!The morning slowly wasted, not a morsel had we tasted,And our heads were almost splitting with the cannons' deafening thrill,When a figure tall and stately round the rampart strode sedately;It wasPrescott, one since told me; he commanded on the hill.40Every woman's heart grew bigger when we saw his manly figure,With the banyan[332]buckled round it, standing up so straight and tall;Like a gentleman of leisure who is strolling out for pleasure,Through the storm of shells and cannon-shot he walked around the wall.At eleven the streets were swarming, for the red-coats' ranks were forming;45At noon in marching order they were moving to the piers;How the bayonets gleamed and glistened, as we looked far down, and listenedTo the trampling and the drum-beat of the belted grenadiers!At length the men have started, with a cheer (it seemed faint-hearted),In their scarlet regimentals, with their knapsacks on their backs,50And the reddening, rippling water, as after a sea-fight's slaughter,Round the barges gliding onward blushed like blood along their tracks.So they crossed to the other border, and again they formed in order;And the boats came back for soldiers, came for soldiers, soldiers still:The time seemed everlasting to us women faint and fasting,—55At last they're moving, marching, marching proudly up the hill.We can see the bright steel glancing all along the lines advancing—Now the front rank fires a volley—they have thrown away their shot;For behind their earthwork lying, all the balls above them flying,Our people need not hurry; so they wait and answer not.60Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he would swear sometimes and tipple),—He had heard the bullets whistle (in the old French war) before,—Calls out in words of jeering, just as if they all were hearing,—And his wooden leg thumps fiercely on the dusty belfry floor:—"Oh! fire away, ye villains, and earn King George's shillin's,65But ye'll waste a ton of powder afore a 'rebel' falls;You may bang the dirt and welcome, they're as safe as Dan'l Malcolm[333]Ten foot beneath the gravestone that you've splintered with your balls!"In the hush of expectation, in the awe and trepidationOf the dread approaching moment, we are well-nigh breathless all;70Though the rotten bars are failing on the rickety belfry railing,We are crowding up against them like the waves against a wall.Just a glimpse (the air is clearer), they are nearer,—nearer,—nearer,When a flash—a curling smoke-wreath—then a crash—the steeple shakes—The deadly truce is ended; the tempest's shroud is rended;75Like a morning mist is gathered, like a thunder-cloud it breaks!O the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black smoke blows over!The red-coats stretched in windrows as a mower rakes his hay;Here a scarlet heap is lying, there a headlong crowd is flyingLike a billow that has broken and is shivered into spray.80Then we cried, "The troops are routed! they are beat—it can't be doubted!God be thanked, the fight is over!"—Ah! the grim old soldier's smile!"Tell us, tell us why you look so?" (we could hardly speak we shook so),—"Are they beaten?Arethey beaten?Arethey beaten?"—"Wait a while."O the trembling and the terror! for too soon we saw our error:85They are baffled, not defeated; we have driven them back in vain;And the columns that were scattered, round the colors that were tattered,Toward the sullen silent fortress turn their belted breasts again.All at once, as we were gazing, lo! the roofs of Charlestown blazing!They have fired the harmless village; in an hour it will be down!90The Lord in Heaven confound them, rain his fire and brimstone round them,—The robbing, murdering red-coats, that would burn a peaceful town!They are marching, stern and solemn; we can see each massive columnAs they near the naked earth-mound with the slanting walls so steep.Have our soldiers got faint-hearted, and in noiseless haste departed?95Are they panic-struck and helpless? Are they palsied or asleep?Now! the walls they're almost under! scarce a rod the foes asunder!Not a firelock flashed against them! up the earthwork they will swarm!But the words have scarce been spoken when the ominous calm is broken,And a bellowing crash has emptied all the vengeance of the storm!100So again, with murderous slaughter, pelted backwards to the water,Fly Pigot's running heroes and the frightened braves of Howe;And we shout, "At last they're done for, it's their barges they have run for:They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the battle's over now!"And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough old soldier's features,105Our lips afraid to question, but he knew what we would ask:"Not sure," he said; "keep quiet,—once more, I guess, they'll try it—Here's damnation to the cut-throats!" then he handed me his flask,Saying, "Gal, you're looking shaky; have a drop of Old Jamaiky;I'm afeared there'll be more trouble afore the job is done;"110So I took one scorching swallow; dreadful faint I felt and hollow,Standing there from early morning when the firing was begun.All through those hours of trial I had watched a calm clock dial,As the hands kept creeping, creeping,—they were creeping round to four,When the old man said, "They're forming with their bayonets fixed for storming:115It's the death-grip that's a-coming,—they will try the works once more."With brazen trumpets blaring, the flames behind them glaring,The deadly wall before them, in close array they come;Still onward, upward toiling, like a dragon's fold uncoiling,—Like the rattlesnake's shrill warning the reverberating drum!120Over heaps all torn and gory—shall I tell the fearful story,How they surged above the breastwork, as a sea breaks over a deck;How, driven, yet scarce defeated, our worn-out men retreated,With their powder-horns all emptied, like the swimmers from a wreck?It has all been told and painted; as for me, they say I fainted,125And the wooden-legged old Corporal stumped with me down the stair:When I woke from dreams affrighted the evening lamps were lighted,—On the floor a youth was lying; his bleeding breast was bare.And I heard through all the flurry, "Send for Warren! hurry! hurry!Tell him here's a soldier bleeding, and he'll come and dress his wound!"130Ah, we knew not till the morrow told its tale of death and sorrow,How the starlight found him stiffened on the dark and bloody ground.Who the youth was, what his name was, where the place from which he came was,Who had brought him from the battle, and had left him at our door,He could not speak to tell us; but 'twas one of our brave fellows,135As the homespun plainly showed us which the dying soldier wore.For they all thought he was dying, as they gathered round him crying,—And they said, "Oh, how they'll miss him!" and, "Whatwillhis mother do?"Then, his eyelids just unclosing like a child's that has been dozing,He faintly murmured, "Mother!"—and—I saw his eyes were blue.140—"Why, grandma, how you're winking!"—Ah, my child, it sets me thinkingOf a story not like this one. Well, he somehow lived along;So we came to know each other, and I nursed him like a—mother,Till at last he stood before me, tall, and rosy-cheeked, and strong.And we sometimes walked together in the pleasant summer weather;145—"Please to tell us what his name was?"—Just your own, my little dear.There's his picture Copley[334]painted: we became so well acquainted,That,—in short, that's why I'm grandma, and you children are all here!"
'Tis like stirring living embers when, at eighty, one remembersAll the achings and the quakings of "the times that tried men's souls[328];"When I talk ofWhigandTory,[329]when I tell theRebelstory,To you the words are ashes, but to me they're burning coals.
I had heard the muskets' rattle of the April running battle[330];5Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see their red coats still;But a deadly chill comes o'er me, as the day looms up before me,When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes of Bunker's Hill.
'Twas a peaceful summer's morning, when the first thing gave us warning.Was the booming of the cannon from the river and the shore:10"Child," says grandma, "what's the matter, what is all this noise and clatter?Have those scalping Indian devils come to murder us once more?"
Poor old soul! my sides were shaking in the midst of all my quaking,To hear her talk of Indians when the guns began to roar:She had seen the burning village, and the slaughter and the pillage,15When the Mohawks[331]killed her father with their bullets through his door.
Then I said, "Now, dear old granny, don't you fret and worry any,For I'll soon come back and tell you whether this is work or play;There can't be mischief in it, so I won't be gone a minute"—For a minute then I started. I was gone the livelong day.20
No time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass grimacing;Down my hair went as I hurried, tumbling half-way to my heels;God forbid your ever knowing, when there's blood around her flowing,How the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet household feels!
In the street I heard a thumping; and I knew it was the stumping25Of the Corporal, our old neighbor, on the wooden leg he wore,With a knot of women round him,—it was lucky I had found him,So I followed with the others, and the Corporal marched before.
They were making for the steeple,—the old soldier and his people;The pigeons circled round us as we climbed the creaking stair,30Just across the narrow river—Oh, so close it made me shiver!—Stood a fortress on the hill-top that but yesterday was bare.
Not slow our eyes to find it; well we knew who stood behind it,Though the earthwork hid them from us, and the stubborn walls were dumb:Here were sister, wife, and mother, looking wild upon each other,35And their lips were white with terror as they said,The Hour Has Come!
The morning slowly wasted, not a morsel had we tasted,And our heads were almost splitting with the cannons' deafening thrill,When a figure tall and stately round the rampart strode sedately;It wasPrescott, one since told me; he commanded on the hill.40
Every woman's heart grew bigger when we saw his manly figure,With the banyan[332]buckled round it, standing up so straight and tall;Like a gentleman of leisure who is strolling out for pleasure,Through the storm of shells and cannon-shot he walked around the wall.
At eleven the streets were swarming, for the red-coats' ranks were forming;45At noon in marching order they were moving to the piers;How the bayonets gleamed and glistened, as we looked far down, and listenedTo the trampling and the drum-beat of the belted grenadiers!
At length the men have started, with a cheer (it seemed faint-hearted),In their scarlet regimentals, with their knapsacks on their backs,50And the reddening, rippling water, as after a sea-fight's slaughter,Round the barges gliding onward blushed like blood along their tracks.
So they crossed to the other border, and again they formed in order;And the boats came back for soldiers, came for soldiers, soldiers still:The time seemed everlasting to us women faint and fasting,—55At last they're moving, marching, marching proudly up the hill.
We can see the bright steel glancing all along the lines advancing—Now the front rank fires a volley—they have thrown away their shot;For behind their earthwork lying, all the balls above them flying,Our people need not hurry; so they wait and answer not.60
Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he would swear sometimes and tipple),—He had heard the bullets whistle (in the old French war) before,—Calls out in words of jeering, just as if they all were hearing,—And his wooden leg thumps fiercely on the dusty belfry floor:—
"Oh! fire away, ye villains, and earn King George's shillin's,65But ye'll waste a ton of powder afore a 'rebel' falls;You may bang the dirt and welcome, they're as safe as Dan'l Malcolm[333]Ten foot beneath the gravestone that you've splintered with your balls!"
In the hush of expectation, in the awe and trepidationOf the dread approaching moment, we are well-nigh breathless all;70Though the rotten bars are failing on the rickety belfry railing,We are crowding up against them like the waves against a wall.
Just a glimpse (the air is clearer), they are nearer,—nearer,—nearer,When a flash—a curling smoke-wreath—then a crash—the steeple shakes—The deadly truce is ended; the tempest's shroud is rended;75Like a morning mist is gathered, like a thunder-cloud it breaks!
O the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black smoke blows over!The red-coats stretched in windrows as a mower rakes his hay;Here a scarlet heap is lying, there a headlong crowd is flyingLike a billow that has broken and is shivered into spray.80
Then we cried, "The troops are routed! they are beat—it can't be doubted!God be thanked, the fight is over!"—Ah! the grim old soldier's smile!"Tell us, tell us why you look so?" (we could hardly speak we shook so),—"Are they beaten?Arethey beaten?Arethey beaten?"—"Wait a while."
O the trembling and the terror! for too soon we saw our error:85They are baffled, not defeated; we have driven them back in vain;And the columns that were scattered, round the colors that were tattered,Toward the sullen silent fortress turn their belted breasts again.
All at once, as we were gazing, lo! the roofs of Charlestown blazing!They have fired the harmless village; in an hour it will be down!90The Lord in Heaven confound them, rain his fire and brimstone round them,—The robbing, murdering red-coats, that would burn a peaceful town!
They are marching, stern and solemn; we can see each massive columnAs they near the naked earth-mound with the slanting walls so steep.Have our soldiers got faint-hearted, and in noiseless haste departed?95Are they panic-struck and helpless? Are they palsied or asleep?
Now! the walls they're almost under! scarce a rod the foes asunder!Not a firelock flashed against them! up the earthwork they will swarm!But the words have scarce been spoken when the ominous calm is broken,And a bellowing crash has emptied all the vengeance of the storm!100
So again, with murderous slaughter, pelted backwards to the water,Fly Pigot's running heroes and the frightened braves of Howe;And we shout, "At last they're done for, it's their barges they have run for:They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the battle's over now!"
And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough old soldier's features,105Our lips afraid to question, but he knew what we would ask:"Not sure," he said; "keep quiet,—once more, I guess, they'll try it—Here's damnation to the cut-throats!" then he handed me his flask,
Saying, "Gal, you're looking shaky; have a drop of Old Jamaiky;I'm afeared there'll be more trouble afore the job is done;"110So I took one scorching swallow; dreadful faint I felt and hollow,Standing there from early morning when the firing was begun.
All through those hours of trial I had watched a calm clock dial,As the hands kept creeping, creeping,—they were creeping round to four,When the old man said, "They're forming with their bayonets fixed for storming:115It's the death-grip that's a-coming,—they will try the works once more."
With brazen trumpets blaring, the flames behind them glaring,The deadly wall before them, in close array they come;Still onward, upward toiling, like a dragon's fold uncoiling,—Like the rattlesnake's shrill warning the reverberating drum!120
Over heaps all torn and gory—shall I tell the fearful story,How they surged above the breastwork, as a sea breaks over a deck;How, driven, yet scarce defeated, our worn-out men retreated,With their powder-horns all emptied, like the swimmers from a wreck?
It has all been told and painted; as for me, they say I fainted,125And the wooden-legged old Corporal stumped with me down the stair:When I woke from dreams affrighted the evening lamps were lighted,—On the floor a youth was lying; his bleeding breast was bare.
And I heard through all the flurry, "Send for Warren! hurry! hurry!Tell him here's a soldier bleeding, and he'll come and dress his wound!"130Ah, we knew not till the morrow told its tale of death and sorrow,How the starlight found him stiffened on the dark and bloody ground.
Who the youth was, what his name was, where the place from which he came was,Who had brought him from the battle, and had left him at our door,He could not speak to tell us; but 'twas one of our brave fellows,135As the homespun plainly showed us which the dying soldier wore.
For they all thought he was dying, as they gathered round him crying,—And they said, "Oh, how they'll miss him!" and, "Whatwillhis mother do?"Then, his eyelids just unclosing like a child's that has been dozing,He faintly murmured, "Mother!"—and—I saw his eyes were blue.140
—"Why, grandma, how you're winking!"—Ah, my child, it sets me thinkingOf a story not like this one. Well, he somehow lived along;So we came to know each other, and I nursed him like a—mother,Till at last he stood before me, tall, and rosy-cheeked, and strong.
And we sometimes walked together in the pleasant summer weather;145—"Please to tell us what his name was?"—Just your own, my little dear.There's his picture Copley[334]painted: we became so well acquainted,That,—in short, that's why I'm grandma, and you children are all here!"
William Cowper was born at Great Berkhamstead, Hertfordshire, England, in 1731. He was educated first at a private school and afterwards at Westminster in London. He studied law, but his progress in the profession was blocked because of an attack of insanity brought on in 1763 by nervousness over an oral examination for a clerkship in the House of Commons. After fifteen months he recovered and went to live at Huntingdon, where he met the Unwin family and began what was to be a lifelong friendship with Mrs. Unwin. Upon Mr. Unwin's death in 1767, Cowper moved with Mrs. Unwin to Olney, passing a secluded life there until 1786. In 1773 he suffered a second attack of melancholia, which lasted sixteen months. Soon after his recovery he coöperated with the Rev. John Newton in writing the well-knownOlney Hymns(1779). In 1782 he published his first volume of poems, and a second volume followed in 1785, containingThe Task,Tirocinium, and the ballad ofJohn Gilpin. A translation of Homer was completed in 1791. After 1791 his reason became hopelessly deranged, and he passed the time until his death in 1800 in utter misery.
Cowper was a man of kind and gentle character, a lover of nature in her milder aspects, and especially fond of animals. As one of the forerunners of the so-called Romantic movement in English poetry, his name is significant. Though at his best in work of a descriptive or satiric kind, he was also gifted with a subtle humor which appears frequently in many shorttales and ballads. A good biography of Cowper is that by Goldwin Smith in the English Men of Letters Series.
The story of John Gilpin was told to Cowper by his friend, Lady Austen, who had heard it when a child. The poet, upon whom the tale made a deep impression, eventually turned it into this ballad, which was first published anonymously in thePublic Advertiserfor November 14, 1782. It became popular at once, and is to-day probably the most widely known of the author's works. It is written in the conventional ballad metre, and preserves many expressions characteristic of the primitive English ballad style.