Othere, the old sea-captain,Who dwelt in Helgoland,To King Alfred, the Lover of Truth,Brought a snow-white walrus-tooth,Which he held in his brown right hand.His figure was tall and stately,Like a boy's his eye appeared;His hair was yellow as hay,But threads of a silvery grayGleamed in his tawny beard.Hearty and hale was Othere,His cheek had the color of oak;With a kind of laugh in his speech,Like the sea-tide on a beach,As unto the King he spoke.And Alfred, King of the Saxons,Had a book upon his knees,And wrote down the wondrous taleOf him who was first to sailInto the Arctic seas."So far I live to the northward,No man lives north of me;To the east are wild mountain-chains,And beyond them meres and plains;To the westward all is sea."So far I live to the northward,From the harbor of Skeringes-hale,If you only sailed by day,With a fair wind all the way,More than a month would you sail."I own six hundred reindeer,With sheep and swine beside;I have tribute from the Finns,Whalebone and reindeer-skins,And ropes of walrus-hide."I ploughed the land with horses,But my heart was ill at ease,For the old seafaring menCame to me now and then,With their sagas of the seas;"Of Iceland and of GreenlandAnd the stormy Hebrides,And the undiscovered deep;—I could not eat nor sleepFor thinking of those seas."To the northward stretched the desert,How far I fain would know;So at last I sallied forth,And three days sailed due north,As far as the whale-ships go."To the west of me was the ocean,To the right the desolate shore,But I did not slacken sailFor the walrus or the whale,Till after three days more,"The days grew longer and longer,Till they became as one,And southward through the hazeI saw the sullen blazeOf the red midnight sun."And then uprose before me,Upon the water's edge,The huge and haggard shapeOf that unknown North Cape,Whose form is like a wedge."The sea was rough and stormy,The tempest howled and wailed,And the sea-fog, like a ghost,Haunted that dreary coast,But onward still I sailed."Four days I steered to eastward,Four days without a nightRound in a fiery ringWent the great sun, O King,With red and lurid light."Here Alfred, King of the Saxons,Ceased writing for a while;And raised his eyes from his book,With a strange and puzzled look,And an incredulous smile.But Othere, the old sea-captain,He neither paused nor stirred,Till the King listened, and thenOnce more took up his pen,And wrote down every word."And now the land," said Othere,"Bent southward suddenly,And I followed the curving shoreAnd ever southward boreInto a nameless sea."And there we hunted the walrus,The narwhale, and the seal;Ha! 't was a noble game!And like the lightning's flameFlew our harpoons of steel."There were six of us all together,Norsemen of Helgoland;In two days and no moreWe killed of them threescore,And dragged them to the strand!Here Alfred the Truth-TellerSuddenly closed his book,And lifted his blue eyes,with doubt and strange surmiseDepicted in their look.And Othere the old sea-captainStared at him wild and weird,Then smiled, till his shining teethGleamed white from underneathHis tawny, quivering beard.And to the King of the Saxons,In witness of the truth,Raising his noble head,He stretched his brown hand, and said,"Behold this walrus-tooth!"
Have you read in the Talmud of old,In the Legends the Rabbins have toldOf the limitless realms of the air,—Have you read it.—the marvellous storyOf Sandalphon, te Angel of Glory,Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer?How, erect, at the outermost gatesOf the City Celestial he waits,With his feet on the ladder of light,That, crowded with angels unnumbered,By Jacob was seen as he slumberedAlone in the desert at night?The Angels of Wind and of Fire,Chant only one hymn, and expireWith the song's irresistible stress;Expire in their rapture and wonder,As harp-strings are broken asunderBy music they throb to express.But serene in the rapturous throng,Unmoved by the rush of the song,With eyes unimpassioned and slow,Among the dead angels, the deathlessSandalphon stands listening breathlessTo sounds that ascend from below;—From the spirits on earth that adore,From the souls that entreat and imploreIn the fervor and passion of prayer;From the hearts that are broken with losses,And weary with dragging the crossesToo heavy for mortals to bear.And he gathers the prayers as he stands,And they change into flowers in his hands,Into garlands of purple and red;And beneath the great arch of the portal,Through the streets of the City ImmortalIs wafted the fragrance they shed.It is but a legend, I know,—A fable, a phantom, a show,Of the ancient Rabbinical lore;Yet the old mediaeval tradition,The beautiful, strange superstitionBut haunts me and holds me the more.When I look from my window at night,And the welkin above is all white,All throbbing and panting with stars,Among them majestic is standingSandalphon the angel, expandingHis pinions in nebulous bars.And the legend, I feel, is a partOf the hunger and thirst of the heart,The frenzy and fire of the brain,That grasps at the fruitage forbidden,The golden pomegranates of Eden,To quiet its fever and pain.
Listen, my children, and you shall hearOf the midnight ride of Paul Revere,On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;Hardly a man is now aliveWho remembers that famous day and year.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 tower as a signal light,—One, if by land, and two, if by sea;And 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 to arm."Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oarSilently 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 sparAcross the moon like a prison bar,And 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,Till 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.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 madeMasses 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,And 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,The 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 dreadOf 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 floatsOn 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,Now gazed at the landscape far and near,Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,And turned and tightened his saddlegirth;But mostly he watched with eager searchThe belfry-tower of the Old North Church,As 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,But 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 sparkStruck 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.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,Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.It was twelve by the village clockWhen he crossed the bridge into Medford town.He heard the crowing of the cock,And the barking of the farmer's dog,And 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 weathercockSwim 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.It was two by the village clock,When he came to the bridge in Concord town.He heard the bleating of the flock,And the twitter of birds among the trees,And felt the breath of the morning breezeBlowing 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.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,Then 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 alarmTo 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,Through 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.
Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope UrbaneAnd Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,Apparelled in magnificent attire,With retinue of many a knight and squire,On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly satAnd heard the priests chant the Magnificat.And as he listened, o'er and o'er againRepeated, like a burden or refrain,He caught the words, "Deposuit potentesDe sede, et exaltavit humiles;"And slowly lifting up his kingly headHe to a learned clerk beside him said,"What mean these words?" The clerk made answer meet,"He has put down the mighty from their seat,And has exalted them of low degree."Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully,"'Tis well that such seditious words are sungOnly by priests and in the Latin tongue;For unto priests and people be it known,There is no power can push me from my throne!"And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep,Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep.When he awoke, it was already night;The church was empty, and there was no light,Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint,Lighted a little space before some saint.He started from his seat and gazed around,But saw no living thing and heard no sound.He groped towards the door, but it was locked;He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked,And uttered awful threatenings and complaints,And imprecations upon men and saints.The sounds re-echoed from the roof and wallsAs if dead priests were laughing in their stalls!At length the sexton, hearing from withoutThe tumult of the knocking and the shout,And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer,Came with his lantern, asking, "Who is there?"Half choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said,"Open: 'tis I, the King! Art thou afraid?"The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse,"This is some drunken vagabond, or worse!"Turned the great key and flung the portal wide;A man rushed by him at a single stride,Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak,Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke,But leaped into the blackness of the night,And vanished like a spectre from his sight.Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope UrbaneAnd Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,Despoiled of his magnificent attire,Bare-headed, breathless, and besprent with mire,With sense of wrong and outrage desperate,Strode on and thundered at the palace gate;Rushed through the court-yard, thrusting in his rageTo right and left each seneschal and page,And hurried up the broad and sounding stair,His white face ghastly in the torches' glare.From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed;Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed,Until at last he reached the banquet—room,Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume.There on the dais sat another king,Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet-ring,King Robert's self in features, form, and height,But all transfigured with angelic light!It was an Angel; and his presence thereWith a divine effulgence filled the air,An exaltation, piercing the disguise,Though none the hidden Angel recognize.A moment speechless, motionless, amazed,The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed,Who met his looks of anger and surpriseWith the divine compassion of his eves;Then said, "Who art thou? and why com'st thou here?"To which King Robert answered with a sneer,"I am the King, and come to claim my ownFrom an impostor, who usurps my throne!"And suddenly, at these audacious words,Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their swords;The Angel answered, with unruffled brow,"Nay, not the King, but the King's Jester, thouHenceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape,And for thy counsellor shaft lead an ape;Thou shalt obey my servants when they call,And wait upon my henchmen in the hall!"Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and prayers,They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs;A group of tittering pages ran before,And as they opened wide the folding-door,His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms,The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms,And all the vaulted chamber roar and ringWith the mock plaudits of "Long live the King!Next morning, waking with the day's first beam,He said within himself, "It was a dream!"But the straw rustled as he turned his head,There were the cap and bells beside his bed,Around him rose the bare, discolored walls,Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls,And in the corner, a revolting shape,Shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape.It was no dream; the world he loved so muchHad turned to dust and ashes at his touch!Days came and went; and now returned againTo Sicily the old Saturnian reignUnder the Angel's governance benignThe happy island danced with corn and wine,And deep within the mountain's burning breastEnceladus, the giant, was at rest.Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his fate,Sullen and silent and disconsolate.Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters wear,With looks bewildered and a vacant stare,Close shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn,By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn,His only friend the ape, his only foodWhat others left,—he still was unsubdued.And when the Angel met him on his way,And half in earnest, half in jest, would say,Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feelThe velvet scabbard held a sword of steel,"Art thou the King?" the passion of his woeBurst from him in resistless overflow,And, lifting high his forehead, he would flingThe haughty answer back, "I am, I am the King!"Almost three years were ended; when there cameAmbassadors of great repute and nameFrom Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine.Unto King Robert, saying that Pope UrbaneBy letter summoned them forthwith to comeOn Holy Thursday to his city of Rome.The Angel with great joy received his guests,And gave them presents of embroidered vests,And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined,And rings and jewels of the rarest kind.Then he departed with them o'er the seaInto the lovely land of Italy,Whose loveliness was more resplendent madeBy the mere passing of that cavalcade,With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the stirOf jewelled bridle and of golden spur.And lo! among the menials, in mock state,Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait,His cloak of fox-tails flapping in the wind,The solemn ape demurely perched behind,King Robert rode, making huge merrimentIn all the country towns through which they went.The Pope received them with great pomp and blareOf bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter's square,Giving his benediction and embrace,Fervent, and full of apostolic grace.While with congratulations and with prayersHe entertained the Angel unawares,Robert, the Jester, bursting through the crowd,Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud,"I am the King! Look, and behold in meRobert, your brother, King of Sicily!This man, who wears my semblance to your eyes,Is an impostor in a king's disguise.Do you not know me? does no voice withinAnswer my cry, and say we are akin?"The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien,Gazed at the Angel's countenance serene;The Emperor, laughing, said, "It is strange sportTo keep a madman for thy Fool at court!"And the poor, baffled Jester in disgraceWas hustled back among the populace.In solemn state the Holy Week went by,And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky;The presence of the Angel, with its light,Before the sun rose, made the city bright,And with new fervor filled the hearts of men,Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again.Even the Jester, on his bed of straw,With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw,He felt within a power unfelt before,And, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor,He heard the rushing garments of the LordSweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward.And now the visit ending, and once moreValmond returning to the Danube's shore,Homeward the Angel journeyed, and againThe land was made resplendent with his train,Flashing along the towns of ItalyUnto Salerno, and from there by sea.And when once more within Palermo's wall,And, seated on the throne in his great hall,He heard the Angelus from convent towers,As if the better world conversed with ours,He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher,And with a gesture bade the rest retire;And when they were alone, the Angel said,"Art thou the King?" Then bowing down his head,King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast,And meekly answered him: "Thou knowest best!My sins as scarlet are; let me go hence,And in some cloister's school of penitence,Across those stones, that pave the way to heaven,Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul is shriven!"The Angel smiled, and from his radiant faceA holy light illumined all the place,And through the open window, loud and clear,They heard the monks chant in the chapel near,Above the stir and tumult of the street"He has put down the mighty from their seat,And has exalted them of low degree!"And through the chant a second melodyRose like the throbbing of a single string"I am an Angel, and thou art the King!"King Robert, who was standing near the throne,Lifted his eyes, and lo! he was alone!But all apparelled as in days of old,With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold;And when his courtiers came, they found him thereKneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer.
"HADST thou stayed, I must have fled!"That is what the Vision said.In his chamber all alone,Kneeling on the floor of stone,Prayed the Monk in deep contritionFor his sins of indecision,Prayed for greater self-denialIn temptation and in trial;It was noonday by the dial,And the Monk was all alone.Suddenly, as if it lightened,An unwonted splendor brightenedAll within him and without himIn that narrow cell of stone;And he saw the Blessed VisionOf our Lord, with light ElysianLike a vesture wrapped about Him,Like a garment round Him thrown.Not as crucified and slain,Not in agonies of pain,Not with bleeding hands and feet,Did the Monk his Master see;But as in the village street,In the house or harvest-field,Halt and lame and blind He healed,When He walked in Galilee.In an attitude imploring,Hands upon his bosom crossed,Wondering, worshipping, adoring,Knelt the Monk in rapture lost.Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest,Who am I, that thus thou deignestTo reveal thyself to me?Who am I, that from the centreOf thy glory thou shouldst enterThis poor cell, my guest to be?Then amid his exaltation,Loud the convent bell appalling,From its belfry calling, calling,Rang through court and corridorWith persistent iterationHe had never heard before.It was now the appointed hourWhen alike in shine or shower,Winter's cold or summer's heat,To the convent portals cameAll the blind and halt and lame,All the beggars of the street,For their daily dole of foodDealt them by the brotherhood;And their almoner was heWho upon his bended knee,Rapt in silent ecstasyOf divinest self-surrender,Saw the Vision and the Splendor.Deep distress and hesitationMingled with his adoration;Should he go or should he stay?Should he leave the poor to waitHungry at the convent gate,Till the Vision passed away?Should he slight his radiant guest,Slight this visitant celestial,For a crowd of ragged, bestialBeggars at the convent gate?Would the Vision there remain?Would the Vision come again?Then a voice within his breastWhispered, audible and clearAs if to the outward ear"Do thy duty; that is best;Leave unto thy Lord the rest!"Straightway to his feet he started,And with longing look intentOn the Blessed Vision bent,Slowly from his cell departed,Slowly on his errand went.At the gate the poor were waiting,Looking through the iron grating,With that terror in the eyeThat is only seen in thoseWho amid their wants and woesHear the sound of doors that close,And of feet that pass them by;Grown familiar with disfavor,Grown familiar with the savorOf the bread by which men die!But to-day, they know not why,Like the gate of ParadiseSeemed the convent gate to rise,Like a sacrament divineSeemed to them the bread and wine.In his heart the Monk was praying,Thinking of the homeless poor,What they suffer and endure;What we see not, what we see;And the inward voice was saying"Whatsoever thing thou doestTo the least of mine and lowest,That thou doest unto me!"Unto me! but had the VisionCome to him in beggar's clothing,Come a mendicant imploring.Would he then have knelt adoring,Or have listened with derision,And have turned away with loathing?Thus his conscience put the question,Full of troublesome suggestion,As at length, with hurried pace,Towards his cell he turned his face,And beheld the convent brightWith a supernatural light,Like a luminous cloud expandingOver floor and wall and ceiling.But he paused with awe-struck feelingAt the threshold of his door,For the Vision still was standingAs he left it there before,When the convent bell appalling,From its belfry calling, calling,Summoned him to feed the poor.Through the long hour interveningIt had waited his return,And he felt his bosom burn,Comprehending all the meaning,When the Blessed Vision said,"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!"
To EDITION of 1847
I love the old melodious laysWhich softly melt the ages through,The songs of Spenser's golden days,Arcadian Sidney's silvery phrase,Sprinkling our noon of time with freshest morning dew.Yet, vainly in my quiet hoursTo breathe their marvellous notes I try;I feel them, as the leaves and flowersIn silence feel the dewy showers,And drink with glad, still lips the blessing of the sky.The rigor of a frozen clime,The harshness of an untaught ear,The jarring words of one whose rhymeBeat often Labor's hurried time,Or Duty's rugged march through storm and strife, are here.Of mystic beauty, dreamy grace,No rounded art the lack supplies;Unskilled the subtle lines to trace,Or softer shades of Nature's face,I view her common forms with unanointed eyes.Nor mine the seer-like power to showThe secrets of the hear and mind;To drop the plummet-line belowOur common world of joy and woe,A more intense despair or brighter hope to find.Yet here at least an earnest senseOf human right and weal is shown;A hate of tyranny intense,And hearty in its vehemence,As if my brother's pain and sorrow were my own.O Freedom! if to me belongNor mighty Milton's gift divine,Nor Marvell's wit and graceful song,Still with a love as deep and strongAs theirs, I lay, like them, my best gifts on thy shrine!
He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes! Youmay trace his footsteps nowOn the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brownhill's withered brow.He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where theirpleasant green came forth,And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have shakenthem down to earth.He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes!—fromthe frozen Labrador,—From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the whitebear wanders o'er,—Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice, and the lucklessforms belowIn the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statuesgrow!He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes!—on therushing Northern blast,And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fearfulbreath went past.With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, where the firesof Hecla glowOn the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below.He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes!—andthe quiet lake shall feelThe torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to theskater's heel;And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sangto the leaning grass,Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournfulsilence pass.He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes!—let usmeet him as we may,And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evilpower away;And gather closer the circle round, when that fire-lightdances high,And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his soundingwing goes by!