Chapter Six.

Chapter Six.Voices of the Night.Prelude.Pleasant it was, when woods were green,And winds were soft and low,To lie amid some sylvan scene,Where, the long drooping boughs between,Shadows dark and sunlight sheenAlternate come and go;Or where the denser grove receivesNo sunlight from above,But the dark foliage interweavesIn one unbroken roof of leaves,Underneath whose sloping eavesThe shadows hardly move.Beneath some patriarchal treeI lay upon the ground;His hoary arms uplifted he,And all the broad leaves over meClapped their little hands in glee,With one continuous sound—A slumberous sound,—a sound that bringsThe feelings of a dream—As of innumerable wings,As, when a bell no longer swings,Paint the hollow murmur ringsO’er meadow, lake, and stream.And dreams of that which cannot die.Bright visions, came to me,As lapped in thought I used to lie,And gaze into the summer sky,Where the sailing clouds went by,Like ships upon the sea;Dreams that the soul of youth engageEre Fancy has been quelled;Old legends of the monkish page,Traditions of the saint and sage,Tales that have the rime of age,And chronicles of Eld.And, loving still these quaint old themes,Even in the city’s throngI feel the freshness of the streams,That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams,Water the green land of dreams,The holy land of song.Therefore, at Pentecost, which bringsThe Spring, clothed like a bride,When nestling buds unfold their wings,And bishop’s-caps have golden rings,Musing upon many things,I sought the woodlands wide.The green trees whispered low and mild;It was a sound of joy!They were my playmates when a child,And rocked me in their arms so wild;Still they looked at me and smiled,As if I were a boy;And ever whispered, mild and low,“Come, be a child once more!”And waved their long arms to and fro,And beckoned solemnly and slow;Oh, I could not choose but goInto the woodlands hoar;Into the blithe and breathing air,Into the solemn wood,Solemn and silent everywhere!Nature with folded hands seemed there,Kneeling at her evening prayer!Like one in prayer I stood.Before me rose an avenueOf tall and sombrous pines;Abroad their fan-like branches grew,And, where the sunshine darted through,Spread a vapour soft and blue,In long and sloping lines.And, falling on my weary brain,Like a fast-falling shower,The dreams of youth came back again;Low lispings of the summer rain,Dropping on the ripened grain;As once upon the flower.Visions of childhood! Stay, oh, stay!Ye were so sweet and wild!And distant voices seemed to say,“It cannot be! They pass away!Other themes demand thy lay;Thou art no more a child!“The land of Song within thee lies,Watered by living springs;The lids of Fancy’s sleepless eyesAre gates unto that Paradise,Holy thoughts, like stars, arise,Its clouds are angels’ wings.“Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be,Not mountains capped with snow,Nor forests sounding like the sea,Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly,Where the woodlands bend to seeThe bending heavens below.“There is a forest where the dinOf iron branches sounds!A mighty river roars between,And whosoever looks therein,Sees the heavens all black with sin—Sees not its depths, nor bounds.“Athwart the swinging branches cast,Soft rays of sunshine pour;Then comes the fearful wintry blast;Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast;Pallid lips say, ‘It is past!We can return no more!’“Look, then, into thine heart, and write!Yes, into Life’s deep stream!All forms of sorrow and delight,All solemn Voices of the Night,That can soothe thee, or affright—Be these henceforth thy theme.”Hymn to the Night.I heard the trailing garments of the NightSweep through her marble halls!I saw her sable skirts all fringed with lightFrom the celestial walls!I felt her presence, by its spell of might,Stoop o’er me from above;The calm, majestic presence of the Night,As of the one I love.I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,The manifold, soft chimes,That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,Like some old poet’s rhymes.From the cool cisterns of the midnight airMy spirit drank repose;The fountain of perpetual peace flows there—From those deep cisterns flows.O holy Night! from thee I learn to bearWhat man has borne before!Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,And they complain no more.Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!Descend with broad-winged flight,The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,The best-beloved Night!A Psalm of Life. What the Heart of the Young Man said to the Psalmist.Tell me not, in mournful numbers,“Life is but an empty dream!”For the soul is dead that slumbers.And things are not what they seem.Life is real! Life is earnest!And the grave is not its goal;“Dust thou art, to dust returnest,”Was not spoken of the soul.Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,Is our destined end or way;But to act, that each to-morrowFind us farther than to-day.Art is long, and Time is fleeting,And our hearts, though stout and brave,Still, like muffled drums, are beatingFuneral marches to the grave.In the world’s broad field of battle,In the bivouac of Life,Be not like dumb, driven cattle!Be a hero in the strife!Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!Let the dead Past bury its dead!Act,—act in the living Present!Heart within, and God o’erhead!Lives of great men all remind usWe can make our lives sublime,And, departing, leave behind usFootprints on the sands of time;—Footprints, that perhaps another,Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,Seeing, shall take heart again.Let us, then, be up and doing,With a heart for any fate;Still achieving, still pursuing,Learn to labour and to wait.The Reaper and the Flowers.There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,And, with his sickle keen,He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,And the flowers that grow between.“Shall I have nought that is fair?” saith he;“Have nought but the bearded grain?Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,I will give them all back again.”He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,He kissed their drooping leaves;It was for the Lord of ParadiseHe bound them in his sheaves.“My Lord has need of these flowers gay,”The Reaper said, and smiled;“Dear tokens of the earth are they,Where He was once a child.“They shall all bloom in fields of light,Transplanted by my care,And saints, upon their garments white,These sacred blossoms wear.”And the mother gave, in tears and pain,The flowers she most did love;She knew she should find them all againIn the fields of light above.Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath,The Reaper came that day;’Twas an angel visited the green earth,And took the flowers away.The Light of Stars.The night is come, but not too soon;And sinking silently,All silently, the little moonDrops down behind the sky.There is no light in earth or heaven,But the cold light of stars;And the first watch of night is givenTo the red planet Mars.Is it the tender star of love?The star of love and dreams?Oh, no! from that blue tent above,A hero’s armour gleams.And earnest thoughts within me rise,When I behold afar,Suspended in the evening skiesThe shield of that red star.O star of strength! I see thee standAnd smile upon my pain;Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand,And I am strong again.Within my breast there is no light,But the cold light of stars;I give the first watch of the nightTo the red planet Mars.The star of the unconquered will,He rises in my breast,Serene, and resolute, and still,And calm, and self-possessed.And thou, too, whosoe’er thou art,That readest this brief psalm,As one by one thy hopes depart,Be resolute and calm.Oh, fear not in a world like this,And thou shalt know ere long,Know how sublime a thing it isTo suffer and be strong.Footsteps of Angels.When the hours of Day are numbered,And the voices of the NightWake the better soul, that slumbered,To a holy, calm delight;Ere the evening lamps are lighted,And, like phantoms grim and tall,Shadows from the fitful firelightDance upon the parlour wall;Then the forms of the departedEnter at the open door;The beloved, the true-hearted,Come to visit me once more;He, the young and strong, who cherishedNoble longings for the strife,By the road-side fell and perished,Weary with the march of life!They, the holy ones and weakly,Who the cross of suffering bore,Folded their pale hands so meekly,Spake with us on earth no more!And with them the Being Beauteous,Who unto my youth was given.More than all things else to love me,And is now a saint in heaven.With a slow and noiseless footstepComes that messenger divine,Takes the vacant chair beside me,Lays her gentle hand in mine.And she sits and gazes at meWith those deep and tender eyes,Like the stars, so still and saint-like,Looking downward from the skies.Uttered not, yet comprehended,Is the spirit’s voiceless prayer.Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,Breathing from her lips of air.Oh, though oft depressed and lonely,All my fears are laid aside,If I but remember onlySuch as these have lived and died!Flowers.Spake full well, in language quaint and olden,One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,When he called the flowers, so blue and golden,Stars, that in earth’s firmament do shine;—Stars they are, wherein we read our history,As astrologers and seers of eld;Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery,Like the burning stars, which they beheld.Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,God hath written in those stars above;But not less in the bright flowerets under usStands the revelation of his love.Bright and glorious is that revelation,Written all over this great world of ours;Making evident our own creation,In these stars of earth,—these golden flowers.And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing,Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a partOf the self-same, universal being,Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining,Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining,Buds that open only to decay;Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,Flaunting gaily in the golden light;Large desires, with most uncertain issues,Tender wishes, blossoming at night!These in flowers and men are more than seeming,Workings are they of the self-same powers,Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming,Seeth in himself and in the flowers.Everywhere about us are they glowing,Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born;Others, their blue eyes with tears o’erflowing,Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn;Not alone in Spring’s armorial bearing.And in Summer’s green-emblazoned field,But in arms of brave old Autumn’s wearing,In the centre of his brazen shield;Not alone in meadows and green alleys,On the mountain-top, and by the brinkOf sequestered pools in woodland valleys,Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink;Not alone in her vast dome of glory,Not on graves of bird and beast alone,But in old cathedrals, high and hoary,On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone;In the cottage of the rudest peasant,In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers,Speaking of the Past unto the Present,Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers;In all places, then, and in all seasons,Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings,Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,How akin they are to human things.And with child-like, credulous affectionWe behold their tender buds expand;Emblems of our own great resurrection,Emblems of the bright and better land.The Beleaguered City.I have read, in some old marvellous tale,Some legend strange and vague,That a midnight host of spectres paleBeleaguered the walls of Prague.Beside the Moldau’s rushing stream,With the wan moon overhead,There stood, as in an awful dream,The army of the dead.White as a sea-fog, landward bound,The spectral camp was seen,And with a sorrowful, deep sound,The river flowed between.No other voice nor sound was there,No drum, nor sentry’s pace;The mist-like banners clasped the air,As clouds with clouds embrace.But, when the old cathedral bellProclaimed the morning prayer,The white pavilions rose and fellOn the alarmed air.Down the broad valley fast and farThe troubled army fled;Up rose the glorious morning star,The ghastly host was dead.I have read in the marvellous heart of man,That strange and mystic scroll,That an army of phantoms vast and wanBeleaguer the human soul.Encamped beside Life’s rushing stream,In Fancy’s misty light,Gigantic shapes and shadows gleamPortentous through the night.Upon its midnight battle-groundThe spectral camp is seen,And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,Flows the River of Life between.No other voice nor sound is there,In the army of the grave;No other challenge breaks the air,But the rushing of Life’s wave.And when the solemn and deep church bellEntreats the soul to pray,The midnight phantoms feel the spell,The shadows sweep away.Down the broad Vale of Tears afarThe spectral camp is fled;Faith shineth as a morning star,Our ghastly fears are dead.Midnight Mass for the Dying Year.Yes, the Year is growing old,And his eye is pale and bleared!Death, with frosty hand and cold,Plucks the old man by the beard,Sorely,—sorely!The leaves are falling, falling,Solemnly and slow;Caw! caw! the rooks are calling,It is a sound of woe,A sound of woe!Through woods and mountain passesThe winds, like anthems, roll;They are chanting solemn masses,Singing, “Pray for this poor soul,Pray,—pray!”And the hooded clouds, like friars,Tell their beads in drops of rain,And patter their doleful prayers;—But their prayers are all in vain,All in vain!There he stands in the foul weather,The foolish, fond Old Year,Crowned with wild flowers, and with heather,Like weak, despised Lear,A king,—a king!Then comes the summer-like day,Bids the old man rejoice!His joy! his last! Oh, the old man greyLoveth that ever-soft voice,Gentle and low.To the crimson woods he saith—To the voice gentle and lowOf the soft air, like a daughter’s breath—“Pray do not mock me so!Do not laugh at me!”And now the sweet day is dead;Cold in his arms it lies;No stain from its breath is spreadOver the glassy skies,No mist or stain!Then, too, the Old Year dieth,And the forests utter a moan,Like the voice of one who criethIn the wilderness alone,“Vex not his ghost!”Then comes, with an awful roar,Gathering and sounding on,The storm-wind from Labrador,The wind Euroclydon,The storm-wind!Howl! howl! and from the forestSweep the red leaves away!Would, the sins that thou abhorrest,O Soul! could thus decay,And be swept away!For there shall come a mightier blast,There shall be a darker day;And the stars, from heaven down-cast,Like red leaves be swept away!Kyrie, eleyson!Christe, eleyson!

Pleasant it was, when woods were green,And winds were soft and low,To lie amid some sylvan scene,Where, the long drooping boughs between,Shadows dark and sunlight sheenAlternate come and go;Or where the denser grove receivesNo sunlight from above,But the dark foliage interweavesIn one unbroken roof of leaves,Underneath whose sloping eavesThe shadows hardly move.Beneath some patriarchal treeI lay upon the ground;His hoary arms uplifted he,And all the broad leaves over meClapped their little hands in glee,With one continuous sound—A slumberous sound,—a sound that bringsThe feelings of a dream—As of innumerable wings,As, when a bell no longer swings,Paint the hollow murmur ringsO’er meadow, lake, and stream.And dreams of that which cannot die.Bright visions, came to me,As lapped in thought I used to lie,And gaze into the summer sky,Where the sailing clouds went by,Like ships upon the sea;Dreams that the soul of youth engageEre Fancy has been quelled;Old legends of the monkish page,Traditions of the saint and sage,Tales that have the rime of age,And chronicles of Eld.And, loving still these quaint old themes,Even in the city’s throngI feel the freshness of the streams,That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams,Water the green land of dreams,The holy land of song.Therefore, at Pentecost, which bringsThe Spring, clothed like a bride,When nestling buds unfold their wings,And bishop’s-caps have golden rings,Musing upon many things,I sought the woodlands wide.The green trees whispered low and mild;It was a sound of joy!They were my playmates when a child,And rocked me in their arms so wild;Still they looked at me and smiled,As if I were a boy;And ever whispered, mild and low,“Come, be a child once more!”And waved their long arms to and fro,And beckoned solemnly and slow;Oh, I could not choose but goInto the woodlands hoar;Into the blithe and breathing air,Into the solemn wood,Solemn and silent everywhere!Nature with folded hands seemed there,Kneeling at her evening prayer!Like one in prayer I stood.Before me rose an avenueOf tall and sombrous pines;Abroad their fan-like branches grew,And, where the sunshine darted through,Spread a vapour soft and blue,In long and sloping lines.And, falling on my weary brain,Like a fast-falling shower,The dreams of youth came back again;Low lispings of the summer rain,Dropping on the ripened grain;As once upon the flower.Visions of childhood! Stay, oh, stay!Ye were so sweet and wild!And distant voices seemed to say,“It cannot be! They pass away!Other themes demand thy lay;Thou art no more a child!“The land of Song within thee lies,Watered by living springs;The lids of Fancy’s sleepless eyesAre gates unto that Paradise,Holy thoughts, like stars, arise,Its clouds are angels’ wings.“Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be,Not mountains capped with snow,Nor forests sounding like the sea,Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly,Where the woodlands bend to seeThe bending heavens below.“There is a forest where the dinOf iron branches sounds!A mighty river roars between,And whosoever looks therein,Sees the heavens all black with sin—Sees not its depths, nor bounds.“Athwart the swinging branches cast,Soft rays of sunshine pour;Then comes the fearful wintry blast;Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast;Pallid lips say, ‘It is past!We can return no more!’“Look, then, into thine heart, and write!Yes, into Life’s deep stream!All forms of sorrow and delight,All solemn Voices of the Night,That can soothe thee, or affright—Be these henceforth thy theme.”

I heard the trailing garments of the NightSweep through her marble halls!I saw her sable skirts all fringed with lightFrom the celestial walls!I felt her presence, by its spell of might,Stoop o’er me from above;The calm, majestic presence of the Night,As of the one I love.I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,The manifold, soft chimes,That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,Like some old poet’s rhymes.From the cool cisterns of the midnight airMy spirit drank repose;The fountain of perpetual peace flows there—From those deep cisterns flows.O holy Night! from thee I learn to bearWhat man has borne before!Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,And they complain no more.Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!Descend with broad-winged flight,The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,The best-beloved Night!

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,“Life is but an empty dream!”For the soul is dead that slumbers.And things are not what they seem.Life is real! Life is earnest!And the grave is not its goal;“Dust thou art, to dust returnest,”Was not spoken of the soul.Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,Is our destined end or way;But to act, that each to-morrowFind us farther than to-day.Art is long, and Time is fleeting,And our hearts, though stout and brave,Still, like muffled drums, are beatingFuneral marches to the grave.In the world’s broad field of battle,In the bivouac of Life,Be not like dumb, driven cattle!Be a hero in the strife!Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!Let the dead Past bury its dead!Act,—act in the living Present!Heart within, and God o’erhead!Lives of great men all remind usWe can make our lives sublime,And, departing, leave behind usFootprints on the sands of time;—Footprints, that perhaps another,Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,Seeing, shall take heart again.Let us, then, be up and doing,With a heart for any fate;Still achieving, still pursuing,Learn to labour and to wait.

There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,And, with his sickle keen,He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,And the flowers that grow between.“Shall I have nought that is fair?” saith he;“Have nought but the bearded grain?Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,I will give them all back again.”He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,He kissed their drooping leaves;It was for the Lord of ParadiseHe bound them in his sheaves.“My Lord has need of these flowers gay,”The Reaper said, and smiled;“Dear tokens of the earth are they,Where He was once a child.“They shall all bloom in fields of light,Transplanted by my care,And saints, upon their garments white,These sacred blossoms wear.”And the mother gave, in tears and pain,The flowers she most did love;She knew she should find them all againIn the fields of light above.Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath,The Reaper came that day;’Twas an angel visited the green earth,And took the flowers away.

The night is come, but not too soon;And sinking silently,All silently, the little moonDrops down behind the sky.There is no light in earth or heaven,But the cold light of stars;And the first watch of night is givenTo the red planet Mars.Is it the tender star of love?The star of love and dreams?Oh, no! from that blue tent above,A hero’s armour gleams.And earnest thoughts within me rise,When I behold afar,Suspended in the evening skiesThe shield of that red star.O star of strength! I see thee standAnd smile upon my pain;Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand,And I am strong again.Within my breast there is no light,But the cold light of stars;I give the first watch of the nightTo the red planet Mars.The star of the unconquered will,He rises in my breast,Serene, and resolute, and still,And calm, and self-possessed.And thou, too, whosoe’er thou art,That readest this brief psalm,As one by one thy hopes depart,Be resolute and calm.Oh, fear not in a world like this,And thou shalt know ere long,Know how sublime a thing it isTo suffer and be strong.

When the hours of Day are numbered,And the voices of the NightWake the better soul, that slumbered,To a holy, calm delight;Ere the evening lamps are lighted,And, like phantoms grim and tall,Shadows from the fitful firelightDance upon the parlour wall;Then the forms of the departedEnter at the open door;The beloved, the true-hearted,Come to visit me once more;He, the young and strong, who cherishedNoble longings for the strife,By the road-side fell and perished,Weary with the march of life!They, the holy ones and weakly,Who the cross of suffering bore,Folded their pale hands so meekly,Spake with us on earth no more!And with them the Being Beauteous,Who unto my youth was given.More than all things else to love me,And is now a saint in heaven.With a slow and noiseless footstepComes that messenger divine,Takes the vacant chair beside me,Lays her gentle hand in mine.And she sits and gazes at meWith those deep and tender eyes,Like the stars, so still and saint-like,Looking downward from the skies.Uttered not, yet comprehended,Is the spirit’s voiceless prayer.Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,Breathing from her lips of air.Oh, though oft depressed and lonely,All my fears are laid aside,If I but remember onlySuch as these have lived and died!

Spake full well, in language quaint and olden,One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,When he called the flowers, so blue and golden,Stars, that in earth’s firmament do shine;—Stars they are, wherein we read our history,As astrologers and seers of eld;Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery,Like the burning stars, which they beheld.Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,God hath written in those stars above;But not less in the bright flowerets under usStands the revelation of his love.Bright and glorious is that revelation,Written all over this great world of ours;Making evident our own creation,In these stars of earth,—these golden flowers.And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing,Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a partOf the self-same, universal being,Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining,Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining,Buds that open only to decay;Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,Flaunting gaily in the golden light;Large desires, with most uncertain issues,Tender wishes, blossoming at night!These in flowers and men are more than seeming,Workings are they of the self-same powers,Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming,Seeth in himself and in the flowers.Everywhere about us are they glowing,Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born;Others, their blue eyes with tears o’erflowing,Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn;Not alone in Spring’s armorial bearing.And in Summer’s green-emblazoned field,But in arms of brave old Autumn’s wearing,In the centre of his brazen shield;Not alone in meadows and green alleys,On the mountain-top, and by the brinkOf sequestered pools in woodland valleys,Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink;Not alone in her vast dome of glory,Not on graves of bird and beast alone,But in old cathedrals, high and hoary,On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone;In the cottage of the rudest peasant,In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers,Speaking of the Past unto the Present,Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers;In all places, then, and in all seasons,Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings,Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,How akin they are to human things.And with child-like, credulous affectionWe behold their tender buds expand;Emblems of our own great resurrection,Emblems of the bright and better land.

I have read, in some old marvellous tale,Some legend strange and vague,That a midnight host of spectres paleBeleaguered the walls of Prague.Beside the Moldau’s rushing stream,With the wan moon overhead,There stood, as in an awful dream,The army of the dead.White as a sea-fog, landward bound,The spectral camp was seen,And with a sorrowful, deep sound,The river flowed between.No other voice nor sound was there,No drum, nor sentry’s pace;The mist-like banners clasped the air,As clouds with clouds embrace.But, when the old cathedral bellProclaimed the morning prayer,The white pavilions rose and fellOn the alarmed air.Down the broad valley fast and farThe troubled army fled;Up rose the glorious morning star,The ghastly host was dead.I have read in the marvellous heart of man,That strange and mystic scroll,That an army of phantoms vast and wanBeleaguer the human soul.Encamped beside Life’s rushing stream,In Fancy’s misty light,Gigantic shapes and shadows gleamPortentous through the night.Upon its midnight battle-groundThe spectral camp is seen,And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,Flows the River of Life between.No other voice nor sound is there,In the army of the grave;No other challenge breaks the air,But the rushing of Life’s wave.And when the solemn and deep church bellEntreats the soul to pray,The midnight phantoms feel the spell,The shadows sweep away.Down the broad Vale of Tears afarThe spectral camp is fled;Faith shineth as a morning star,Our ghastly fears are dead.

Yes, the Year is growing old,And his eye is pale and bleared!Death, with frosty hand and cold,Plucks the old man by the beard,Sorely,—sorely!The leaves are falling, falling,Solemnly and slow;Caw! caw! the rooks are calling,It is a sound of woe,A sound of woe!Through woods and mountain passesThe winds, like anthems, roll;They are chanting solemn masses,Singing, “Pray for this poor soul,Pray,—pray!”And the hooded clouds, like friars,Tell their beads in drops of rain,And patter their doleful prayers;—But their prayers are all in vain,All in vain!There he stands in the foul weather,The foolish, fond Old Year,Crowned with wild flowers, and with heather,Like weak, despised Lear,A king,—a king!Then comes the summer-like day,Bids the old man rejoice!His joy! his last! Oh, the old man greyLoveth that ever-soft voice,Gentle and low.To the crimson woods he saith—To the voice gentle and lowOf the soft air, like a daughter’s breath—“Pray do not mock me so!Do not laugh at me!”And now the sweet day is dead;Cold in his arms it lies;No stain from its breath is spreadOver the glassy skies,No mist or stain!Then, too, the Old Year dieth,And the forests utter a moan,Like the voice of one who criethIn the wilderness alone,“Vex not his ghost!”Then comes, with an awful roar,Gathering and sounding on,The storm-wind from Labrador,The wind Euroclydon,The storm-wind!Howl! howl! and from the forestSweep the red leaves away!Would, the sins that thou abhorrest,O Soul! could thus decay,And be swept away!For there shall come a mightier blast,There shall be a darker day;And the stars, from heaven down-cast,Like red leaves be swept away!Kyrie, eleyson!Christe, eleyson!

Chapter Seven.Earlier Poems.These poems were written for the most part during my college life, and all of them before the age of nineteen. Some have found their way into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and precarious existence in the corners of newspapers; or have changed their names and run away to seek their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, with the Bishop of Avranches, on a similar occasion, “I cannot be displeased to see these children of mine, which I have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a more decorous garb.”An April Day.When the warm sun, that bringsSeed-time and harvest, has returned again,’Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springsThe first flower of the plain.I love the season well,When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretellThe coming-on of storms.From the earth’s loosened mouldThe sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives;Though stricken to the heart with winter’s cold,The drooping tree revives.The softly-warbled songComes from the pleasant woods and coloured wingsGlance quick in the bright sun, that moves alongThe forest openings.When the bright sunset fillsThe silver woods with light, the green slope throwsIts shadows in the hollows of the hills,And wide the upland glows.And when the eve is born,In the blue lake the sky, o’er-reaching farIs hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn,And twinkles many a star.Inverted in the tide,Stand the grey rooks, and trembling shadows throw,And the fair trees look over, side by side,And see themselves below.Sweet April!—many a thoughtIs wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed;Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought,Life’s golden fruit is shed.Autumn.With what a glory comes and goes the year!The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingersOf sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoyLife’s newness, and earth’s garnitude spread outAnd when the silver habit of the cloudsComes down upon the autumn sun, and withA sober gladness the old year takes upHis bright inheritance of golden fruits,A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.There is a beautiful spirit breathing nowIts mellow richness on the clustered trees,And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds.Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,Lifts up her purple wing; and in the valesThe gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,Kisses the blushing leap, and stirs up lifeWithin the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned,And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits downBy the wayside a-weary. Through the treesThe golden robin moves. The purple finch,That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle,And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloudFrom cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings;And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke,Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.Oh, what a glory doth this world put onFor him who, with a fervent heart, goes forthUnder the bright and glorious sky, and looksOn duties well performed, and days well spent!For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves,Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings.He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that DeathHas lifted up for all, that he shall goTo his long resting-place without a tear.Woods in Winter.When winter winds are piercing chillAnd through the hawthorn blows the gale,With solemn feet I tread the hill,That overbrows the lonely vale.O’er the bare upland, and awayThrough the long reach of desert woods,The embracing sunbeams chastely play,And gladden these deep solitudes.Where, twisted round the barren oak,The summer vine in beauty clung,And summer winds the stillness broke,The crystal icicle is hung.Where, from their frozen urns, mute springsPour out the river’s gradual tide,Shrilly the skater’s iron rings,And voices fill the woodland side.Alas! how changed from the fair scene,When birds sang out their mellow lay,And winds were soft, and woods were green,And the song ceased not with the day.But still wild music is abroad,Pale, desert woods! within your crowd;And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.Chill airs and wintry winds! my earHas grown familiar with your song;I hear it in the opening year—I listen, and it cheers me long.Hymn of the Moravian Nuns of Bethlehem, at the consecration of Pulaski’s Banner.When the dying flame of dayThrough the chancel shot its ray,Far the glimmering tapers shedFaint light on the cowled head;And the censer burning swung,Where, before the altar, hungThe blood-red banner, that with prayerHad been consecrated there.And the nuns’ sweet hymn was heard the while,Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle.“Take thy banner! May it waveProudly o’er the good and brave;When the battle’s distant wailBreaks the sabbath of our vale,When the clarion’s music thrillsTo the hearts of these lone hills,When the spear in conflicts shakes,And the strong lance shivering breaks.“Take thy banner! and, beneathThe battle-cloud’s encircling wreath,Guard it!—till our homes are free!Guard it!—God will prosper thee!In the dark and trying hour,In the breaking forth of power,In the rush of steeds and men,His right hand will shield thee then.“Take thy banner! But, when nightCloses round the ghastly fight,If the vanquished warrior bow,Spare him!—By our holy vow,By our prayers and many tears,By the mercy that endears,Spare him!—he our love hath shared!Spare him!—as thou wouldst be spared!“Take thy banner! and if e’erThou shouldst press the soldier’s bier,And the muffled drum should beatTo the tread of mournful feet,Then this crimson flag shall beMartial cloak and shroud for thee.”The warrior took that banner proud,And it was his martial cloak and shroud!Sunrise on the hills.I stood upon the hills, when heaven’s wide archWas glorious with the sun’s returning march,And woods were brightened, and soft galesWent forth to kiss the sun-clad vales.The clouds were far beneath me;—bathed in lightThey gathered mid-way round the wooded height,And, in their fading glory, shoneLike hosts in battle overthrown,As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance,Through the grey mist thrust up its shattered lance,And rocking on the cliff was leftThe dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft,The veil of cloud was lifted, and belowGlowed the rich valley, and the river’s flowWas darkened by the forest’s shade,Or glistened in the white cascade;Where upward, in the mellow blush of day,The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way.I heard the distant waters dash,I saw the current whirl and flash—And richly, by the blue lake’s silver beach,The woods were bending with a silent reach,Than o’er the vale, with gentle swell,The music of the village bellCame sweetly to the echo-giving hills;And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills,Was ringing to the merry shout,That faint and far the glen sent out,Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke,Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke.If thou art worn and hard besetWith sorrows, that thou wouldst forget,If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keepThy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep,Go to the woods and hills!—No tearsDim the sweet look that Nature wears.The Spirit of Poetry.There is a quiet spirit in these woods,That dwells where’er the gentle south wind blows;Where, underneath the whitethorn, in the glade,The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.With what a tender and impassioned voiceIt fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,When the fast-ushering star of morning comesO’er-riding the grey hills with golden scarf;Or when the cowled and dusky-sandalled Eve,In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,Departs with silent pace! That spirit movesIn the green valley, where the silver brook,From its full laver, pours the white cascade;And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.And frequent, on the everlasting hills,Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itselfIn all the dark embroidery of the storm,And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amidThe silent majesty of these deep woods,Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,As to the sunshine and the pure, bright airTheir tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bardsHave ever loved the calm and quiet shades.For them there was an eloquent voice in allThe sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds—The swelling upland, where the sidelong sunAslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes—Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in,Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale,The distant lake, fountains,—and mighty trees,In many a lazy syllable, repeatingTheir old poetic legends to the wind.And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fillThe world; and, in these wayward days of youth,My busy fancy oft embodies it,As a bright image of the light and beautyThat dwell in nature,—of the heavenly formsWe worship in our dreams, and the soft huesThat stain the wild bird’s wing, and flush the cloudsWhen the sun sets. Within her eyeThe heaven of April, with its changing light,And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hairIs like the summer tresses of the trees,When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheekBlushes the richness of an autumn sky,With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,It is so like the gentle air of spring,As, from the morning’s dewy flowers, it comesFull of their fragrance, that it is a joyTo have it round us,—and her silver voiceIs the rich music of a summer bird,Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.Burial of the Minnisink.On sunny slope and beechen swellThe shadowed light of evening fell:And, where the maple’s leaf was brown,With soft and silent lapse came downThe glory, that the wood receives,At sunset, in its brazen leaves.Far upward in the mellow lightRose the blue hills. One cloud of white,Around a far uplifted cone,In the warm blush of evening shone;An image of the silver lakes,By which the Indian’s soul awakes.But soon a funeral hymn was heardWhere the soft breath of evening stirredThe tall, grey forest; and a bandOf stern in heart, and strong in hand,Came winding down beside the wave,To lay the red chief in his grave.They sang, that by his native bowersHe stood, in the last moon of flowers,And thirty snows had not yet shedTheir glory on the warrior’s head;But, as the summer fruit decays,So died he in those naked days.A dark cloak of the roebuck’s skinCovered the warrior, and withinIts heavy folds the weapons, madeFor the hard toils of war, were laid;The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds,And the broad belt of shells and beads.Before, a dark-haired virgin trainChanted the death-dirge of the slain;Behind, the long procession cameOf hoary men and chiefs of fame,With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief,Leading the war-horse of their chief.Stripped of his proud and martial dress,Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless,With darting eye, and nostril spread,And heavy and impatient tread,He came; and oft that eye so proudAsked for his rider in the crowd.They buried the dark chief, they freedBeside the grave his battle steed;And swift an arrow cleaved its wayTo his stern heart! One piercing neighArose,—and, on the dead man’s plain,The rider grasps his steed again.

These poems were written for the most part during my college life, and all of them before the age of nineteen. Some have found their way into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and precarious existence in the corners of newspapers; or have changed their names and run away to seek their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, with the Bishop of Avranches, on a similar occasion, “I cannot be displeased to see these children of mine, which I have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a more decorous garb.”

When the warm sun, that bringsSeed-time and harvest, has returned again,’Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springsThe first flower of the plain.I love the season well,When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretellThe coming-on of storms.From the earth’s loosened mouldThe sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives;Though stricken to the heart with winter’s cold,The drooping tree revives.The softly-warbled songComes from the pleasant woods and coloured wingsGlance quick in the bright sun, that moves alongThe forest openings.When the bright sunset fillsThe silver woods with light, the green slope throwsIts shadows in the hollows of the hills,And wide the upland glows.And when the eve is born,In the blue lake the sky, o’er-reaching farIs hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn,And twinkles many a star.Inverted in the tide,Stand the grey rooks, and trembling shadows throw,And the fair trees look over, side by side,And see themselves below.Sweet April!—many a thoughtIs wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed;Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought,Life’s golden fruit is shed.

With what a glory comes and goes the year!The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingersOf sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoyLife’s newness, and earth’s garnitude spread outAnd when the silver habit of the cloudsComes down upon the autumn sun, and withA sober gladness the old year takes upHis bright inheritance of golden fruits,A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.There is a beautiful spirit breathing nowIts mellow richness on the clustered trees,And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds.Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,Lifts up her purple wing; and in the valesThe gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,Kisses the blushing leap, and stirs up lifeWithin the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned,And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits downBy the wayside a-weary. Through the treesThe golden robin moves. The purple finch,That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle,And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloudFrom cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings;And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke,Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.Oh, what a glory doth this world put onFor him who, with a fervent heart, goes forthUnder the bright and glorious sky, and looksOn duties well performed, and days well spent!For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves,Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings.He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that DeathHas lifted up for all, that he shall goTo his long resting-place without a tear.

When winter winds are piercing chillAnd through the hawthorn blows the gale,With solemn feet I tread the hill,That overbrows the lonely vale.O’er the bare upland, and awayThrough the long reach of desert woods,The embracing sunbeams chastely play,And gladden these deep solitudes.Where, twisted round the barren oak,The summer vine in beauty clung,And summer winds the stillness broke,The crystal icicle is hung.Where, from their frozen urns, mute springsPour out the river’s gradual tide,Shrilly the skater’s iron rings,And voices fill the woodland side.Alas! how changed from the fair scene,When birds sang out their mellow lay,And winds were soft, and woods were green,And the song ceased not with the day.But still wild music is abroad,Pale, desert woods! within your crowd;And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.Chill airs and wintry winds! my earHas grown familiar with your song;I hear it in the opening year—I listen, and it cheers me long.

When the dying flame of dayThrough the chancel shot its ray,Far the glimmering tapers shedFaint light on the cowled head;And the censer burning swung,Where, before the altar, hungThe blood-red banner, that with prayerHad been consecrated there.And the nuns’ sweet hymn was heard the while,Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle.“Take thy banner! May it waveProudly o’er the good and brave;When the battle’s distant wailBreaks the sabbath of our vale,When the clarion’s music thrillsTo the hearts of these lone hills,When the spear in conflicts shakes,And the strong lance shivering breaks.“Take thy banner! and, beneathThe battle-cloud’s encircling wreath,Guard it!—till our homes are free!Guard it!—God will prosper thee!In the dark and trying hour,In the breaking forth of power,In the rush of steeds and men,His right hand will shield thee then.“Take thy banner! But, when nightCloses round the ghastly fight,If the vanquished warrior bow,Spare him!—By our holy vow,By our prayers and many tears,By the mercy that endears,Spare him!—he our love hath shared!Spare him!—as thou wouldst be spared!“Take thy banner! and if e’erThou shouldst press the soldier’s bier,And the muffled drum should beatTo the tread of mournful feet,Then this crimson flag shall beMartial cloak and shroud for thee.”The warrior took that banner proud,And it was his martial cloak and shroud!

I stood upon the hills, when heaven’s wide archWas glorious with the sun’s returning march,And woods were brightened, and soft galesWent forth to kiss the sun-clad vales.The clouds were far beneath me;—bathed in lightThey gathered mid-way round the wooded height,And, in their fading glory, shoneLike hosts in battle overthrown,As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance,Through the grey mist thrust up its shattered lance,And rocking on the cliff was leftThe dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft,The veil of cloud was lifted, and belowGlowed the rich valley, and the river’s flowWas darkened by the forest’s shade,Or glistened in the white cascade;Where upward, in the mellow blush of day,The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way.I heard the distant waters dash,I saw the current whirl and flash—And richly, by the blue lake’s silver beach,The woods were bending with a silent reach,Than o’er the vale, with gentle swell,The music of the village bellCame sweetly to the echo-giving hills;And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills,Was ringing to the merry shout,That faint and far the glen sent out,Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke,Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke.If thou art worn and hard besetWith sorrows, that thou wouldst forget,If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keepThy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep,Go to the woods and hills!—No tearsDim the sweet look that Nature wears.

There is a quiet spirit in these woods,That dwells where’er the gentle south wind blows;Where, underneath the whitethorn, in the glade,The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.With what a tender and impassioned voiceIt fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,When the fast-ushering star of morning comesO’er-riding the grey hills with golden scarf;Or when the cowled and dusky-sandalled Eve,In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,Departs with silent pace! That spirit movesIn the green valley, where the silver brook,From its full laver, pours the white cascade;And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.And frequent, on the everlasting hills,Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itselfIn all the dark embroidery of the storm,And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amidThe silent majesty of these deep woods,Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,As to the sunshine and the pure, bright airTheir tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bardsHave ever loved the calm and quiet shades.For them there was an eloquent voice in allThe sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds—The swelling upland, where the sidelong sunAslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes—Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in,Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale,The distant lake, fountains,—and mighty trees,In many a lazy syllable, repeatingTheir old poetic legends to the wind.And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fillThe world; and, in these wayward days of youth,My busy fancy oft embodies it,As a bright image of the light and beautyThat dwell in nature,—of the heavenly formsWe worship in our dreams, and the soft huesThat stain the wild bird’s wing, and flush the cloudsWhen the sun sets. Within her eyeThe heaven of April, with its changing light,And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hairIs like the summer tresses of the trees,When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheekBlushes the richness of an autumn sky,With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,It is so like the gentle air of spring,As, from the morning’s dewy flowers, it comesFull of their fragrance, that it is a joyTo have it round us,—and her silver voiceIs the rich music of a summer bird,Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.

On sunny slope and beechen swellThe shadowed light of evening fell:And, where the maple’s leaf was brown,With soft and silent lapse came downThe glory, that the wood receives,At sunset, in its brazen leaves.Far upward in the mellow lightRose the blue hills. One cloud of white,Around a far uplifted cone,In the warm blush of evening shone;An image of the silver lakes,By which the Indian’s soul awakes.But soon a funeral hymn was heardWhere the soft breath of evening stirredThe tall, grey forest; and a bandOf stern in heart, and strong in hand,Came winding down beside the wave,To lay the red chief in his grave.They sang, that by his native bowersHe stood, in the last moon of flowers,And thirty snows had not yet shedTheir glory on the warrior’s head;But, as the summer fruit decays,So died he in those naked days.A dark cloak of the roebuck’s skinCovered the warrior, and withinIts heavy folds the weapons, madeFor the hard toils of war, were laid;The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds,And the broad belt of shells and beads.Before, a dark-haired virgin trainChanted the death-dirge of the slain;Behind, the long procession cameOf hoary men and chiefs of fame,With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief,Leading the war-horse of their chief.Stripped of his proud and martial dress,Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless,With darting eye, and nostril spread,And heavy and impatient tread,He came; and oft that eye so proudAsked for his rider in the crowd.They buried the dark chief, they freedBeside the grave his battle steed;And swift an arrow cleaved its wayTo his stern heart! One piercing neighArose,—and, on the dead man’s plain,The rider grasps his steed again.

Chapter Eight.Translations.King Christian. A National Song of Denmark. From the Danish of Johannes Evald.King Christian stood by the lofty mastIn mist and smoke;His sword was hammering so fast,Through Gothic helm and brain it passed;Then sank each hostile hulk and mast,In mist and smoke.“Fly!” shouted they, “fly, he who can!Who braves of Denmark’s ChristianThe stroke?”Nils Juel gave heed to the tempest’s roar,Now is the hour!He hoisted his blood-red flag once more,And smote upon the foe full sore,And shouted loud, through the tempest’s roar,“Now is the hour!”“Fly!” shouted they, “for shelter fly!Of Denmark’s Juel who can defyThe power?”North Sea! a glimpse of Wessel rentThy murky sky!Then champions to thine arms were sent;Terror and Death glared where he went;From the waves was heard a wail, that rentThy murky sky!From Denmark, thunders Tordenskiold,Let each to Heaven commend his soul,And fly!Path to the Dane to fame and might!Dark-rolling wave!Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight,Goes to meet danger with despite,Proudly as thou the tempest’s might,Dark-rolling wave!And amid pleasures and alarms,And war and victory, he thine armsMy grave!Nils Juel was a celebrated Danish Admiral, and Peder Wessel, a Vice-Admiral, who for his great prowess received the popular title of Torden-skiold, orThunder-shield, in childhood he was a tailor’s apprentice, and rose to his high rank before the age of twenty-eight, when he was killed in a duel.The Celestial Pilot. From Dante’s Purgatorio, II.And now, behold! as at the approach of morningThrough the gross vapours, Mars grows fiery redDown in the west upon the ocean floor.Appeared to me,—may I again behold it!A light along the sea, so swiftly coming,Its motion by no flight of wing is equalled.And when therefrom I had withdrawn a littleMine eyes, that I might question my conductor,Again I saw it brighter grown and larger.Thereafter, on all sides of it, appearedI knew not what of white, and underneath,Little by little, there came forth another.My master yet had uttered not a word,While the first brightness into wings unfolded;But, when he clearly recognised the pilot,He cried aloud; “Quick, quick, and bow the knee!Behold the Angel of God! fold up thy hands!Henceforward shalt thou see such officers!“See, how he scorns all human arguments,So that no oar he wants, nor other sailThan his own wings, between so distant shores!“See, how he holds them, pointed straight to heaven,Fanning the air with the eternal pinions,That do not moult themselves like mortal hair!”And then, as nearer and more near us cameThe Bird of Heaven, more glorious he appeared,So that the eye could not sustain his presence.But down I cast it; and he came to shoreWith a small vessel, gliding swift and light,So that the water swallowed nought thereof.Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot!Beatitude seemed written in his face!And more than a hundred spirits sat within.“In exitu Israelout of Egypt!”Thus sang they all together in one voice,With whatso in that Psalm is after written.Then made he sign of holy rood upon them,Whereat all cast themselves upon the shore,And he departed swiftly as he came.The Terrestrial Paradise. From Dante, Purgatorio, XXVIII.Longing already to search in and roundThe heavenly forest, dense and living green,Which to the eyes tempered the new-born day,Withouten more delay I left the bank,Crossing the level country slowly, slowly,Over the soil, that everywhere breathed fragrance.A gently-breathing air, that no mutationHad in itself, smote me upon the forehead,No heavier blow, than of a pleasant breeze,Whereat the tremulous branches readilyDid all of them bow downward towards that sideWhere its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain;Yet not from their upright direction bentSo that the little birds upon their topsShould cease the practice of their tuneful art;But, with full-throated joy, the hours of primeSinging received they in the midst of foliageThat made monotonous burden to their rhymes,Even as from branch to branch it gathering swells,Through the pine forests on the shore of Chiassi,When Aeolus unlooses the Sirocco.Already my slow steps had led me onInto the ancient wood so far, that ICould see no more the place where I had entered.And lo! my farther course cut off a river,Which, towards the left hand, with its little waves,Bent down the grass, that on its margin sprang.All waters that on earth most limpid are,Would seem to have within themselves some mixture,Compared with that, which nothing doth conceal,Although it moves on with a brown, brown current,Under the shade perpetual, that neverRay of the sun lets in, nor of the moon.Spring.From the French of Charles D’Orleans, Fifteenth Century.Gentle Spring!—in sunshine clad,Well dost thou thy power display!For Winter maketh the light heart sad,And thou—thou makest the sad heart gay.He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train,The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain;And they shrink away, and they flee in fear,When thy merry step draws near.Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old,Their beards of icicles and snow;And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold,We must cower over the embers low;And, snugly housed from the wind and weather,Mope like birds that are changing feather.But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear,When thy merry step draws near.Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy skyWrap him round with a mantle of cloud;But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh;Thou tearest away the mournful shroud,And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly,Who has toiled for nought both late and early,Is banished afar by the new-born year,When thy merry step draws near.Song of the Bell. From the German.Bell! thou soundest merrily,When the bridal partyTo the church doth hie!Bell! thou soundest solemnly,When, on Sabbath morning,Fields deserted lie!Bell! thou soundest merrily;Tellest thou at evening,Bed-time draweth nigh!Bell! thou soundest mournfully;Tellest thou the bitterParting hath gone by!Say! how canst thou mourn?How canst thou rejoice?Thou art but metal dull!And yet all our sorrowings,And all our rejoicings,Thou dost feed them all!God hath wonders many,Which we cannot fathom,Placed within thy form!When the heart is sinking,Thou alone canst raise it,Trembling in the storm!The End.

King Christian stood by the lofty mastIn mist and smoke;His sword was hammering so fast,Through Gothic helm and brain it passed;Then sank each hostile hulk and mast,In mist and smoke.“Fly!” shouted they, “fly, he who can!Who braves of Denmark’s ChristianThe stroke?”Nils Juel gave heed to the tempest’s roar,Now is the hour!He hoisted his blood-red flag once more,And smote upon the foe full sore,And shouted loud, through the tempest’s roar,“Now is the hour!”“Fly!” shouted they, “for shelter fly!Of Denmark’s Juel who can defyThe power?”North Sea! a glimpse of Wessel rentThy murky sky!Then champions to thine arms were sent;Terror and Death glared where he went;From the waves was heard a wail, that rentThy murky sky!From Denmark, thunders Tordenskiold,Let each to Heaven commend his soul,And fly!Path to the Dane to fame and might!Dark-rolling wave!Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight,Goes to meet danger with despite,Proudly as thou the tempest’s might,Dark-rolling wave!And amid pleasures and alarms,And war and victory, he thine armsMy grave!

Nils Juel was a celebrated Danish Admiral, and Peder Wessel, a Vice-Admiral, who for his great prowess received the popular title of Torden-skiold, orThunder-shield, in childhood he was a tailor’s apprentice, and rose to his high rank before the age of twenty-eight, when he was killed in a duel.

And now, behold! as at the approach of morningThrough the gross vapours, Mars grows fiery redDown in the west upon the ocean floor.Appeared to me,—may I again behold it!A light along the sea, so swiftly coming,Its motion by no flight of wing is equalled.And when therefrom I had withdrawn a littleMine eyes, that I might question my conductor,Again I saw it brighter grown and larger.Thereafter, on all sides of it, appearedI knew not what of white, and underneath,Little by little, there came forth another.My master yet had uttered not a word,While the first brightness into wings unfolded;But, when he clearly recognised the pilot,He cried aloud; “Quick, quick, and bow the knee!Behold the Angel of God! fold up thy hands!Henceforward shalt thou see such officers!“See, how he scorns all human arguments,So that no oar he wants, nor other sailThan his own wings, between so distant shores!“See, how he holds them, pointed straight to heaven,Fanning the air with the eternal pinions,That do not moult themselves like mortal hair!”And then, as nearer and more near us cameThe Bird of Heaven, more glorious he appeared,So that the eye could not sustain his presence.But down I cast it; and he came to shoreWith a small vessel, gliding swift and light,So that the water swallowed nought thereof.Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot!Beatitude seemed written in his face!And more than a hundred spirits sat within.“In exitu Israelout of Egypt!”Thus sang they all together in one voice,With whatso in that Psalm is after written.Then made he sign of holy rood upon them,Whereat all cast themselves upon the shore,And he departed swiftly as he came.

Longing already to search in and roundThe heavenly forest, dense and living green,Which to the eyes tempered the new-born day,Withouten more delay I left the bank,Crossing the level country slowly, slowly,Over the soil, that everywhere breathed fragrance.A gently-breathing air, that no mutationHad in itself, smote me upon the forehead,No heavier blow, than of a pleasant breeze,Whereat the tremulous branches readilyDid all of them bow downward towards that sideWhere its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain;Yet not from their upright direction bentSo that the little birds upon their topsShould cease the practice of their tuneful art;But, with full-throated joy, the hours of primeSinging received they in the midst of foliageThat made monotonous burden to their rhymes,Even as from branch to branch it gathering swells,Through the pine forests on the shore of Chiassi,When Aeolus unlooses the Sirocco.Already my slow steps had led me onInto the ancient wood so far, that ICould see no more the place where I had entered.And lo! my farther course cut off a river,Which, towards the left hand, with its little waves,Bent down the grass, that on its margin sprang.All waters that on earth most limpid are,Would seem to have within themselves some mixture,Compared with that, which nothing doth conceal,Although it moves on with a brown, brown current,Under the shade perpetual, that neverRay of the sun lets in, nor of the moon.

From the French of Charles D’Orleans, Fifteenth Century.

Gentle Spring!—in sunshine clad,Well dost thou thy power display!For Winter maketh the light heart sad,And thou—thou makest the sad heart gay.He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train,The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain;And they shrink away, and they flee in fear,When thy merry step draws near.Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old,Their beards of icicles and snow;And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold,We must cower over the embers low;And, snugly housed from the wind and weather,Mope like birds that are changing feather.But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear,When thy merry step draws near.Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy skyWrap him round with a mantle of cloud;But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh;Thou tearest away the mournful shroud,And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly,Who has toiled for nought both late and early,Is banished afar by the new-born year,When thy merry step draws near.

Bell! thou soundest merrily,When the bridal partyTo the church doth hie!Bell! thou soundest solemnly,When, on Sabbath morning,Fields deserted lie!Bell! thou soundest merrily;Tellest thou at evening,Bed-time draweth nigh!Bell! thou soundest mournfully;Tellest thou the bitterParting hath gone by!Say! how canst thou mourn?How canst thou rejoice?Thou art but metal dull!And yet all our sorrowings,And all our rejoicings,Thou dost feed them all!God hath wonders many,Which we cannot fathom,Placed within thy form!When the heart is sinking,Thou alone canst raise it,Trembling in the storm!

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