In the latter part of the reign of Louis XV. of France the masquerade was an entertainment in high estimation, and was often given, at an immense cost, on court days, and such occasions of rejoicing. As persons of all ranks might gain admission to these spectacles, provided they could afford the purchase of the ticket, very strangerencontresfrequently took place at them, and exhibitions almost as curious, in the way of disguise or assumption of character. But perhaps the most whimsical among the genuine surprises recorded at any of these spectacles was that which occurred in Paris on the 15th of October, on the day when the Dauphin (son of Louis XV.) attained the age of one-and-twenty.
At this fête, which was of a peculiarly glittering character—so much so, that the details of it are given at great length by the historians of the day—the strange demeanour of a man in a green domino, early in the evening, excited attention. This mask, who showed nothing remarkable as to figure—though tall, rather, and of robust proportion—seemed to be gifted with anappetite, not merely past human conception, but passing the fancies of even romance.
The dragon of old, who churches ate(He used to come on a Sunday),Whole congregations were to himBut a dish of Salmagundi,—
he was but a nibbler—a mere fool—to this stranger of the green domino. He passed from chamber to chamber—from table to table of refreshments—not tasting, but devouring—devastating—all before him. At one board he despatched a fowl, two-thirds of a ham, and half-a-dozen bottles of champagne; and, the very next moment, he was found seated in another apartment performing the same feat, with a stomach better than at first. This strange course went on until the company (who at first had been amused by it) became alarmed and tumultuous.
"Is it the same mask—or are there several dressed alike?" demanded an officer of guards as the green domino rose from a seat opposite to him and quitted the apartment.
"I have seen but one—and, by Heaven, here he is again," exclaimed the party to whom the query was addressed.
The green domino spoke not a word, but proceeded straight to the vacant seat which he had just left, and again commenced supping, as though he had fasted for the half of a campaign.
At length the confusion which this proceeding created became universal; and the cause reached the ear of the Dauphin.
"He is the very devil, your highness!" exclaimed an old nobleman—"saving your Highness's presence—or wants but a tail to be so!"
"Say, rather he should be some famished poet, by his appetite," replied the Prince, laughing. "But there must be some juggling; he spills all his wine, and hides the provisions under his robe."
Even while they were speaking, the green domino entered the room in which they were talking, and, as usual, proceeded to the table of refreshments.
"See here, my lord!" cried one—"I have seen him do this thrice!"
"I, twice!"—"I, five times!"—"and I, fifteen."
This was too much. The master of the ceremonies was questioned. He knew nothing—and the green domino was interrupted as he was carrying a bumper of claret to his lips.
"The Prince's desire is, that Monsieur who wears the green domino should unmask." The stranger hesitated.
"The command with which his Highness honours Monsieur is perfectly absolute."
Against that which is absolute there is no contending. The green man threw off his mask and domino; and proved to be a private trooper of the Irish dragoons!
"And in the name of gluttony, my good friend (not to ask how you gained admission), how have you contrived," said the Prince, "to sup to-night so many times?"
"Sire, I was but beginning to sup, with reverence be it said, when your royal message interrupted me."
"Beginning!" exclaimed the Dauphin in amazement; "then what is it I have heard and seen? Where are the herds of oxen that have disappeared, and the hampers of Burgundy? I insist upon knowing how this is!"
"It is Sire," returned the soldier, "may it please your Grace, that the troop to which I belong is to-day on guard. We have purchased one ticket among us, and provided this green domino, which fits us all. By which means the whole of the front rank, being myself the last man, have supped, if the truth must be told, at discretion; and the leader of the rear rank, saving your Highness's commands, is now waiting outside the door to take his turn."
"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 splendour 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 corridor,With 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,Wrapt in silent ecstasyOf divinest self-surrender,Saw the Vision and the splendour.
Deep distress and hesitationMingled with his adoration;Should he go or should he stay?Should he leave the poor to waitHungry at the convent gateTill the Vision passed away?Should he slight his heavenly 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 clear,As 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 closeAnd of feet that pass them by;Grown familiar with disfavour,Grown familiar with the savourOf 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 lowestThat 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 derisionAnd have turned away with loathing?
Thus his conscience put the question,Full of troublesome suggestion,As at length, with hurried pace,Toward 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!"
At Atri in Abruzzo, a small townOf ancient Roman date, but scant renown,One of those little places that have runHalf up the hill, beneath a blazing sun,And then sat down to rest, as if to say,"I climb no further upward, come what may,"—The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame,So many monarchs since have borne the name,Had a great bell hung in the market-placeBeneath a roof, projecting some small space,By way of shelter from the sun and rain.Then rode he through the streets with all his train,And, with the blast of trumpets loud and long;Made proclamation, that whenever wrongWas done to any man, he should but ringThe great bell in the square, and he, the King,Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon.Such was the proclamation of King John.
How swift the happy days in Atri sped,What wrongs were righted, need not here be said.Suffice it that, as all things must decay,The hempen rope at length was worn away,Unravelled at the end, and, strand by strand,Loosened and wasted in the ringer's hand,Till one, who noted this in passing by,Mended the rope with braids of briony,So that the leaves and tendrils of the vineHung like a votive garland at a shrine.
By chance it happened that in Atri dweltA knight, with spur on heel and sword in belt,Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the woods,Who loved his falcons with their crimson hoods,Who loved his hounds and horses, and all sportsAnd prodigalities of camps and courts;—Loved, or had loved them; for at last, grown old,His only passion was the love of gold.
He sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds,Rented his vineyards and his garden-grounds,Kept but one steed, his favourite steed of all,To starve and shiver in a naked stall,And day by day sat brooding in his chair,Devising plans how best to hoard and spare.At length he said: "What is the use or needTo keep at my own cost this lazy steed,Eating his head off in my stables here,When rents are low and provender is dear?Let him go feed upon the public ways:I want him only for the holidays."So the old steed was turned into the heatOf the long, lonely, silent, shadeless street;And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn,Barked at by dogs, and torn by briar and thorn.
One afternoon, as in that sultry climeIt is the custom in the summer time,With bolted doors and window-shutters closed,The inhabitants of Atri slept or dozed;When suddenly upon their senses fellThe loud alarum of the accusing bell!The Syndic started from his deep repose,Turned on his coach, and listened, and then roseAnd donned his robes, and with reluctant paceWent panting forth into the market-place,Where the great bell upon its cross-beam swung,Reiterating with persistent tongue,In half-articulate jargon, the old song:"Some one hath done a wrong, hath done a wrong!"But ere he reached the belfry's light arcade,He saw, or thought he saw, beneath its shade,No shape of human form of woman born,But a poor steed dejected and forlorn,Who with uplifted head and eager eyeWas tugging at the vines of briony."Domeneddio!" cried the Syndic straight,"This is the Knight of Atri's steed of state!He calls for justice, being sore distressed,And pleads his cause as loudly as the best."
Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowdHad rolled together like a summer cloud,And told the story of the wretched beastIn five-and-twenty different ways at least,With much gesticulation and appealTo heathen gods, in their excessive zeal.The Knight was called and questioned; in replyDid not confess the fact, did not deny;
Treated the matter as a pleasant jest,And set at nought the Syndic and the rest,Maintaining, in an angry undertone,That he should do what pleased him with his own.And thereupon the Syndic gravely readThe proclamation of the King; then said:"Pride goeth forth on horseback grand and gay,But cometh back on foot, and begs its way;Fame is the fragrance of heroic deedsOf flowers of chivalry, and not of weeds!These are familiar proverbs; but I fearThey never yet have reached your knightly ear.What fair renown, what honour, what reputeCan come to you from starving this poor brute?He who serves well and speaks not, merits moreThan they who clamour loudest at the door.Therefore the law decrees that as this steedServed you in youth, henceforth you shall take heedTo comfort his old age, and to provideShelter in stall, and food and field beside."
The Knight withdrew abashed; the people allLed home the steed in triumph to his stall.The King heard and approved, and laughed in glee,And cried aloud: "Right well it pleaseth me!Church-bells at best but ring us to the door;But go not into mass; my bell doth more:It cometh into court and pleads the causeOf creatures dumb and unknown to the laws;And this shall make, in every Christian clime,The Bell of Atri famous for all time."
The tempest rages wild and high,The waves lift up their voice and cryFierce answers to the angry sky,—Miserere Domine.
Through the black night and driving rain,A ship is struggling, all in vainTo live upon the stormy main;—Miserere Domine.
The thunders roar, the lightnings glare,Vain is it now to strive or dare;A cry goes up of great despair,—Miserere Domine.
The stormy voices of the main,The moaning wind, the pelting rainBeat on the nursery window pane:—Miserere Domine.
Warm curtained was the little bed,Soft pillowed was the little head;"The storm will wake the child," they said:Miserere Domine.
Cowering among his pillows whiteHe prays, his blue eyes dim with fright,"Father save those at sea to-night!"Miserere Domine.
The morning shone all clear and gay,On a ship at anchor in the bay,And on a little child at play,—Gloria tibi Domine!
I saw a Ruler take his standAnd trample on a mighty land;The People crouched before his beck,His iron heel was on their neck,His name shone bright through blood and pain,His sword flashed back their praise again.
I saw another Ruler rise—His words were noble, good and wise;With the calm sceptre of his penHe ruled the minds, and thoughts of men;Some scoffed, some praised, while many heard,Only a few obeyed his word.
Another Ruler then I saw—Love and sweet Pity were his law:The greatest and the least had part(Yet most the unhappy) in his heart—The People in a mighty band,Rose up and drove him from the land!
Ere the brothers though the gatewayIssued forth with old and young,To the Horn Sir Eustace pointed,Which for ages there had hung.Horn it was which none could sound,No one upon living ground,Save He who came as rightful HeirTo Egremont's Domains and Castle fair.
Heirs from times of earliest recordHad the House of Lucie borne,Who of right had held the lordshipClaimed by proof upon the horn:Each at the appointed hourTried the horn—it owned his power;He was acknowledged; and the blastWhich good Sir Eustace sounded was the last.
With his lance Sir Eustace pointed,And to Hubert thus said he:"What I speak this horn shall witnessFor thy better memory.Hear, then, and neglect me not!At this time, and on this spot,The words are uttered from my heart,As my last earnest prayer ere we depart.
"On good service we are going,Life to risk by sea and land,In which course if Christ our SaviourDo my sinful soul demand,Hither come thou back straightway,Hubert, if alive that day;Return, and sound the horn, that weMay have a living house still left in thee!"
"Fear not," quickly answered Hubert:"As I am thy father's son,What thou askest, noble brother,With God's favour, shall be done."So were both right well content:Forth they from the castle went,And at the head of their arrayTo Palestine the brothers took their way.
Side by side they fought (the LuciesWere a line for valour famed),And where'er their strokes alighted,There the Saracens were tamed.Whence, then, could it come—the thought—By what evil spirit brought?Oh! can a brave man wish to takeHis brother's life, for lands' and castle's sake?
"Sir!" the ruffians said to Hubert,"Deep he lies in Jordan's flood."Stricken by this ill assurance,Pale and trembling Hubert stood."Take your earnings.—Oh! that ICould haveseenmy brother die!"It was a pang that vexed him then,And oft returned, again, and yet again.
Months passed on, and no Sir Eustace!Nor of him were tidings heard;Wherefore, bold as day, the murdererBack again to England steered.To his castle Hubert sped;Nothing has he now to dread.But silent and by stealth he came,And at an hour which nobody could name.
None could tell if it were night-time,Night or day, at even or morn;No one's eye had seen him enter,No one's ear had heard the horn.But bold Hubert lives in glee:Months and years went smilingly;With plenty was his table spread,And bright the lady is who shares his bed.
Likewise he had sons and daughters;And, as good men do, he sateAt his board by these surrounded,Flourishing in fair estate.And while thus in open dayOnce he sate, as old books say,A blast was uttered from the horn,Where by the castle-gate it hung forlorn,
'Tis the breath of good Sir Eustace!He has come to claim his right:Ancient castle, woods, and mountainsHear the challenge with delight.Hubert! though the blast be blown,He is helpless and alone:Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word!And there he may be lodged, and thou be lord!
Speak!—astounded Hubert cannot;And, if power to speak he had,All are daunted, all the householdSmitten to the heart and sad.'Tis Sir Eustace; if it beLiving man it must be he!Thus Hubert thought in his dismay,And by a postern-gate he slunk away.
Long and long was he unheard of:To his brother then he came,Made confession, asked forgiveness,Asked it by a brother's name,And by all the saints in heaven;And of Eustace was forgiven:Then in a convent went to hideHis melancholy head, and there he died.
But Sir Eustace, whom good angelsHad preserved from murderers' hands,And from pagan chains had rescued,Lived with honour on his lands.Sons he had, saw sons of theirs:And through ages, heirs of heirs,A long posterity renownedSounded the horn which they alone could sound.
There dwelt in Bethlehem a Jewish maid,And Zillah was her name, so passing fairThat all Judea spake the virgin's praise.He who had seen her eyes' dark radiance,How it revealed her soul, and what a soulBeamed in the mild effulgence, woe to him!For not in solitude, for not in crowds,Might he escape remembrance, nor avoidHer imaged form, which followed everywhere,And filled the heart, and fixed the absent eye.Alas for him! her bosom owned no loveSave the strong ardour of religious zeal;For Zillah upon heaven had centred allHer spirit's deep affections. So for herHer tribe's men sighed in vain, yet reverencedThe obdurate virtue that destroy'd their hopes.
One man there was, a vain and wretched man,Who saw, desired, despaired, and hated her:His sensual eye had gloated on her cheekE'en till the flush of angry modestyGave it new charms, and made him gloat the more.She loathed the man, for Hamuel's eye was bold,And the strong workings of brute selfishnessHad moulded his broad features; and she fearedThe bitterness of wounded vanityThat with a fiendish hue would overcastHis faint and lying smile. Nor vain her fear,For Hamuel vowed revenge, and laid a plotAgainst her virgin fame. He spread abroadWhispers that travel fast, and ill reportsThat soon obtain belief; how Zillah's eye,When in the temple heavenward it was raised,Did swim with rapturous zeal, but there were thoseWho had beheld the enthusiast's melting glanceWith other feelings filled:—that 'twas a taskOf easy sort to play the saint by dayBefore the public eye, but that all eyesWere closed at night;—that Zillah's life was foul,Yea, forfeit to the law.
Shame—shame to man,That he should trust so easily the tongueWhich stabs another's fame! The ill reportWas heard, repeated, and believed,—and soon,For Hamuel by his well-schemed villainyProduced such semblances of guilt,—the maidWas to the fire condemned!
Without the wallsThere was a barren field; a place abhorred,For it was there where wretched criminalsReceived their death! and there they fixed the stake,And piled the fuel round, which should consumeThe injured maid, abandoned, as it seemed,By God and man.
The assembled BethlehemitesBeheld the scene, and when they saw the maidBound to the stake, with what calm holinessShe lifted up her patient looks to heaven,They doubted of her guilt.—
With other thoughtsStood Hamuel near the pile; him savage joyLed thitherward, but now within his heartUnwonted feelings stirred, and the first pangsOf wakening guilt, anticipant of hell!
The eye of Zillah as it glanced aroundFell on the slanderer once, and rested thereA moment; like a dagger did it pierce,And struck into his soul a cureless wound.Conscience! thou God within us! not in the hourOf triumph dost thou spare the guilty wretch,Not in the hour of infamy and deathForsake the virtuous!—
They draw near the stake—They bring the torch!—hold, hold your erring hands!Yet quench the rising flames!—O God, protect,They reach the suffering maid!—O God, protectThe innocent one! They rose, they spread, they raged;—The breath of God went forth; the ascending fireBeneath its influence bent, and all its flames,In one long lightning-flash concentrating,Darted and blasted Hamuel—him alone!
Hark what a fearful scream the multitudePour forth!—and yet more miracles! the stakeBranches and buds, and spreading its green leaves,Embowers and canopies the innocent maidWho there stands glorified; and roses, thenFirst seen on earth since Paradise was lost,Profusely blossom round her, white and red,In all their rich variety of hues;And fragrance such as our first parents breathedIn Eden, she inhales, vouchsafed to herA presage sure of Paradise regained.
The joy-bells are ringing in gay Malahide,The fresh wind is singing along the seaside;The maids are assembling with garlands of flowers,And the harp-strings are trembling in all the glad bowers
Swell, swell the gay measure! roll trumpet and drum!'Mid greetings of pleasure in splendour they come!The chancel is ready, the portal stands wide,For the lord and the lady, the bridegroom and bride.
What years, ere the latter, of earthly delight,The future shall scatter o'er them in its flight!What blissful caresses shall fortune bestow,Ere those dark-flowing tresses fall white as the snow!
Before the high altar young Maud stands arrayed:With accents that falter her promise is made—From father and mother for ever to part,For him and no other to treasure her heart.
The words are repeated, the bridal is done,The rite is completed—the two, they are one;The vow, it is spoken all pure from the heart,That must not be broken till life shall depart.
Hark! 'Mid the gay clangour that compassed their car,Loud accents in anger come mingling afar!The foe's on the border! his weapons resoundWhere the lines in disorder unguarded are found!
As wakes the good shepherd, the watchful and bold,When the ounce or the leopard is seen in the fold,So rises already the chief in his mail,While the new-married lady looks fainting and pale.
"Son, husband, and brother, arise to the strife,For sister and mother, for children and wife!O'er hill and o'er hollow, o'er mountain and plain,Up, true men, and follow! let dastards remain!"
Farrah! to the battle!—They form into line—The shields, how they rattle! the spears, how they shine!Soon, soon shall the foeman his treachery rue—On, burgher and yeoman! to die or to do!
The eve is declining in lone Malahide;The maidens are twining gay wreaths for the bride;She marks them unheeding—her heart is afar,Where the clansmen are bleeding for her in the war.
Hark!—loud from the mountain—'tis victory's cry!O'er woodland and fountain it rings to the sky!The foe has retreated! he flees to the shore;The spoiler's defeated—the combat is o'er!
With foreheads unruffled the conquerors come—But why have they muffled the lance and the drum?What form do they carry aloft on his shield?And where does he tarry, the lord of the field?
Ye saw him at morning, how gallant and gay!In bridal adorning, the star of the day;Now, weep for the lover—his triumph is sped,His hope it is over! the chieftain is dead!
But, O! for the maiden who mourns for that chief,With heart overladen and rending with grief!She sinks on the meadow—in one morning-tide,A wife and a widow, a maid and a bride!
Ye maidens attending, forbear to condole!Your comfort is rending the depths of her soul:True—true, 'twas a story for ages of pride;He died in his glory—but, oh, hehasdied!
The war-cloak she raises all mournfully now,And steadfastly gazes upon the cold brow;That glance may for ever unaltered remain,But the bridegroom will never return it again.
The dead-bells are tolling in sad Malahide,The death-wail is rolling along the seaside;The crowds, heavy-hearted, withdraw from the green,For the sun has departed that brightened the scene!
How scant was the warning, how briefly revealed,Before on that morning, death's chalice was filled!Thus passes each pleasure that earth can supply—Thus joy has its measure—we live but to die!
Turgesius, the chief of a turbulent band,Came over from Norway and conquer'd the land:Rebellion had smooth'd the invader's career,The natives shrank from him, in hate, or in fear;While Erin's proud spirit seem'd slumb'ring in peace,In secret it panted for death—or release.
The tumult of battle was hush'd for awhile,—Turgesius was monarch of Erin's fair isle,The sword of the conqueror slept in its sheath,His triumphs were honour'd with trophy and wreath;The princes of Erin despair'd of relief,And knelt to the lawless Norwegian chief.
His heart knew the charm of a woman's sweet smile;But ne'er, till he came to this beautiful isle,Did he know with what mild, yet resistless control,That sweet smile can conquer a conqueror's soul:And oh! 'mid the sweet smiles most sure to enthral,He soon met with one—he thought sweetest of all.
The brave Prince of Meath had a daughter as fairAs the pearls of Loch Neagh which encircled her hair;The tyrant beheld her, and cried, "She shall comeTo reign as the queen of my gay mountain home;Ere sunset to-morrow hath crimson'd the sea,Melachlin, send forth thy young daughter to me!"
Awhile paused the Prince—too indignant to speak,There burn'd a reply in his glance—on his cheek:But quickly that hurried expression was gone,And calm was his manner, and mild was his tone.He answered—"Ere sunset hath crimson'd the sea,To-morrow—I'll send my young daughter to thee.
"At sunset to-morrow your palace forsake,With twenty young chiefs seek the isle on yon lake;And there, in its coolest and pleasantest shades,My child shall await you with twenty fair maids:Yes—bright as my armour the damsels shall beI send with my daughter, Turgesius, to thee."
Turgesius return'd to his palace; to himThe sports of that evening seem'd languid and dim;And tediously long was the darkness of night,And slowly the morning unfolded its light;The sun seem'd to linger—as if it would beAn age ere his setting would crimson the sea.
At length came the moment—the King and his bandWith rapture push'd out their light boat from the land;And bright shone the gems on the armour, and brightFlash'd their fast-moving oars in the setting sun's light;And long ere they landed, they saw though the treesThe maiden's white garments that waved in the breeze.
More strong in the lake was the dash of each oar,More swift the gay vessel flew on to the shore;Its keel touch'd the pebbles—but over the surfThe youths in a moment had leap'd to the turf,And rushed to a shady retreat in the wood,Where many veiled forms mute and motionless stood.
"Say, which is Melachlin's fair daughter? awayWith these veils," cried Turgesius, "no longer delay;Resistance is vain, we will quickly beholdWhich robe hides the loveliest face in its fold;These clouds shall no longer o'ershadow our bliss,Let each seize a veil—and my trophy be this!"
He seized a white veil, and before him appear'dNo fearful, weak girl—but a foe to be fear'd!A youth—who sprang forth from his female disguise,Like lightning that flashes from calm summer skies:His hand grasp'd a weapon, and wild was the joyThat shone in the glance of the warrior boy.
And under each white robe a youth was conceal'd,Who met his opponent with sword and with shield.Turgesius was slain—and the maidens were blest,Melachlin's fair daughter more blithe than the rest;And ere the last sunbeam had crimson'd the sea,They hailed the boy-victors—and Erin was free!
O, heard ye yon pibroch sound sad on the gale,Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?'Tis the Chief of Glenara laments for his dear,And her sire and her people are called to the bier.
Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud:Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud:Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around;They marched all in silence—they looked to the ground.
In silence they reached over mountains and moor,To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar:"Now here let us place the grey stone of her cairn:Why speak ye no word?" said Glenara the stern.
"And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse,Why fold ye your mantles? why cloud ye your brows?"So spake the rude chieftain; no answer is made,But each mantle unfolding, a dagger displayed!
"I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her shroud,"Cried a voice from the kinsmen all wrathful and loud;"And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem:Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"
Oh, pale grew the cheek of the chieftain, I ween,When the shroud was unclosed, and no body was seen!Then a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn—'Twas the youth that had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn:
"I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her grief,I dreamed that her lord was a barbarous chief;On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem:—Glenara! Glenara! now read me MY dream!"
In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground,And the desert revealed where his lady was found;From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne;Now joy to the house of the fair Ellen of Lorn!
He grew as a red-headed thistleMight grow, a mere vagabond weed—Little Frieder—as gay with his whistleAs water-wagtail on a reed—Blithe that was indeed!
He had a little old fiddle,A shabby and wonderful thing,Patched at end, patched and glued in the middleOft lacking a key or a string,But, oh, it could sing!
Barber's 'prentice was Frieder, but havingNo sense of the true barber's art,He cut every face in the shaving,Pulled hair, and left gashes and smart,Getting blows for his part.
Blows he liked not, and so off he startedOne morning, his fortune to seek,Comb and fiddle his all, yet light-heartedAs long as his fiddle could squeak,Be it ever so weak.
Ran away! Highway rutted or dustySeemed velvety grass to his feet;Sang the birds; his own stout legs were trusty;To his hunger a black crust was sweet,And life seemed complete.
Towards twilight he came to a meadowWhere a lovely green water, outlaidLike a looking-glass, held in clear shadowLow iris-grown shores—every bladeIts double had made.
Neck, the Nixie, lived under this water,In a palace of glass, far belowWhere fishes might swim, or the otterCould dive, or a sunbeam could go,Or a lily root grow.
And, lo, Frieder spied him that minuteIn a little red coat, sitting thereBy the pond, with his feet hanging in it,And clawing his knotted green hairIn a comic despair.
Green hair, full of duck weed, and tangledWith snail shells, and moss and eel-grassIt was, and it straggled and dangledOver forehead and shoulders—alas,A wild hopeless mass.
"Good evening," hailed Frieder, "I know you,Sir Neck, the Pond Nixie! I prayYou will come to the shore, and I'll show youHow hair should be combed, if I may,The real barber's way."
Neck swam like a frog to him, grinning,And Frieder attacked the green maneThat had neither end nor beginning!Neck bore like a hero the strainOf the pulling and pain.
Till at length, without whimper or whiningThe task of the combing was done,And each lock was as smooth and as shiningAs long iris leaves in the sun—Soft as silk that is spun.
Then Neck thrust his hand in the rushesAnd pulled out his own violin,And played—why, it seemed as if thrushesHad song-perches under his chin,So sweet was the din.
The barber boy's heart fell to throbbing;"Herr Neck"—this was all he could say,Between fits of laughing and sobbing—"Herr Neck, oh, pray teach me to playIn that wonderful way!"
Neck glanced at the comb. "Will you give itFor this little fiddle?" he cried."My comb—why, of course you can have it,And jacket and supper beside!"Eager Frieder replied.
Neck flung down his fiddle, and catchingThe comb at arm's length, dived below.And Frieder, the instrument snatchingAcross the weird strings drew the bow,To and fro—to and fro!
Till out of the forest came springingRoebuck and rabbit and deer;Till the nightingale stopped in its singingAnd the black flitter-mice crowded near,The sweet music to hear.
* * * * *
Forth from that moment went FriederFar countries and kingdoms to roam,Of all earth's musicians the leader,King's castles and courts for a home,But, alas, for his comb!
Gold he had, but a comb again, never!And his hair in a wild disarrayHenceforth grew at random.—And everMusicians to this very dayWear theirs the same way!
No doubt you've 'eard the tale, sir. Thanks,—'arf o' stout and mild.Of the man who did his dooty, though it might have killed his child.He was only a railway porter, yet he earned undy'n' fame.Well!—Mine's a similar story, though the end ain't quite the same.
I were pointsman on the South Eastern, with an only child—a girlAs got switched to a houtside porter, though fit to 'ave married apearl.With a back as straight as a tunnel, and lovely carrotty 'air,She used to bring me my dinner, sir, and couldn't she take hershare!—
One day she strayed on the metals, and fell asleep on the track;I didn't 'appen to miss her, sir, or I should ha' called her back.She'd gone quite out of earshot, and I daresen't leave my post,For the lightnin' express was comin', but four hours late at themost!
'Ave you ever seen the "lightnin'" thunder through New Cross?Fourteen miles an hour, sir, with stoppages, of course.And just in the track of the monster was where my darling slept.I could hear the rattle already, as nearer the monster crept!
I might turn the train on the sidin', but I glanced at the loop lineand sawThat right on the outer metals was lyin' a bundle of straw;And right in the track of the "lightnin'" was where my darlin' laid,But the loop line 'ud smash up the engine, and there'd be nodividend paid
I thought of the awful disaster, of the blood and the coroner's'quest;Of the verdict, "No blame to the pointsman, he did it all for thebest!"And I thought of the compensation the Co. would 'ave to payIf I turned the train on the sidin' where the 'eap of stubble lay.
So I switched her off on the main, sir, and she thundered by like asnail,And I didn't recover my senses till I'd drunk 'arf a gallon o' ale.For though only a common pointsman, I've a father's feelings, too,So I sank down in a faint, sir, as my Polly was 'id from view.
And now comes the strangest part, sir, my Polly was roused by thesound.You think she escaped the engine by lyin' flat on the ground?No! always a good 'un to run, sir, by jove she must 'ave flown,For she raced the "lightnin' express," sir, till the engine waspuffed and blown!!!
When next you see the boss, sir, tell him o' what I did,How I nobly done my dooty, though it might a killed my kid;And you may, if you like, spare a trifle for the agony I endured,When I thought that my Polly was killed, sir, and I 'adn't got herinsured!
'Twas late, and the gay company was gone,And light lay soft on the deserted roomFrom alabaster vases, and a scentOf orange leaves, and sweet verbena cameThrough the unshutter'd window on the air.And the rich pictures with their dark old tintsHung like a twilight landscape, and all thingsSeem'd hush'd into a slumber. Isabel,The dark-eyed spiritual IsabelWas leaning on her harp, and I had stay'dTo whisper what I could not when the crowdHung on her look like worshippers. I knelt,And with the fervour of a lip unusedTo the cool breath of reason, told my love.There was no answer, and I took the handThat rested on the strings, and press'd a kissUpon it unforbidden—and againBesought her, that this silent evidenceThat I was not indifferent to her heart,Might have the seal of one sweet syllable.I kiss'd the small white fingers as I spoke.And she withdrew them gently, and upraisedHer forehead from its resting-place, and look'dEarnestly on me—She had been asleep!
I played with you 'mid cowslips blowing,When I was six and you were four;When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing,Were pleasures soon to please no more.Through groves and meads, o'er grass and heather,With little playmates, to and fro,We wandered hand in hand together;But that was sixty years ago.
You grew a lovely roseate maiden.And still our early love was strong;Still with no care our days were laden,They glided joyously along:And I did love you very dearly,How dearly words want power to show;I thought your heart was touched as nearly;But that was fifty years ago.
Then other lovers came around you,Your beauty grew from year to year,And many a splendid circle found youThe centre of its glittering sphere.I saw you then, first vows forsaking,On rank and wealth your hand bestow;'Oh, then I thought my heart was breaking,—But that was forty years ago.
And I lived on, to wed another:No cause she gave me to repine;And when I heard you were a mother,I did not wish the children mine.My own young flock, in fair progression,Made up a pleasant Christmas row:My joy in them was past expression,—But that was thirty years ago.
You grew a matron plump and comely,You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze;My earthly lot was far more homely;But I too had my festal days.No merrier eyes have ever glistenedAround the hearth-stone's wintry glow,Than when my youngest child was christened,—But that was twenty years ago.
Time passed. My eldest girl was married,And I am now a grandsire gray!One pet of four years old I've carriedAmong the wild-flowered meads to play.In our old fields of childish pleasure,Where now, as then, the cowslips blow,She fills her basket's ample measure,—And that is not ten years ago.
But though first love's impassioned blindnessHas passed away in colder light,I still have thought of you with kindness,And shall do, till our last good-nightThe ever-rolling silent hoursWill bring a time we shall not know,When our young days of gathering flowersWill be a hundred years ago.
"So she's here, your unknown Dulcinea—the lady you met on the train, And you really believe she would know you if you were to meet her again?"
"Of course," he replied, "she would know me; there was neverwomankind yetForgot the effect she inspired. She excuses, but does not forget."
"Then you told her your love?" asked the elder; while the younger looked up with a smile: "I sat by her side half an hour—what else was I doing the while?
"What, sit by the side of a woman as fair as the sun in the sky, And look somewhere else lest the dazzle flash back from your own to her eye?
"No, I hold that the speech of the tongue be as frank and as bold asthe look,And I held up myself to herself—that was more than she got from herbook."
"Young blood!" laughed the elder; "no doubt you are voicing the modeof to-day:But then we old fogies at least gave the lady some chance for delay.
"There's my wife—(you must know)—we first met on the journey fromFlorence to Rome;It took me three weeks to discover who was she, and where was herhome;
"Three more to be duly presented; three more ere I saw her again; And a year ere my romancebeganwhere yours ended that day on the train."
"Oh, that was the style of the stage-coach; we travel to-day byexpress;Forty miles to the hour," he answered, "won't admit of a passionthat's less."
"But what if you make a mistake?" quoth the elder. The younger halfsighed."What happens when signals are wrong or switches misplaced?" hereplied.
"Very well, I must bow to your wisdom," the elder returned, "butsubmitYour chances of winning this woman your boldness has bettered nowhit.
"Why, you do not at best know her name. And what if I try your ideal With something, if not quite so fair, at least moreen règleand real?
"Let me find you a partner. Nay, come, I insist—you shall follow—this way. My dear, will you not add your grace to entreat Mr. Rapid to stay?
"My wife, Mr. Rapid—Eh, what? Why, he's gone—yet he said he wouldcome.How rude! I don't wonder, my dear, you are properly crimson anddumb?"