What know we greater than the soul?On God and Godlike men we build our trust.

Tennyson.

Myfootsteps press where, centuries ago,The Red Men fought and conquer'd; lost and won.Whole tribes and races, gone like last year's snow,Have found the Eternal Hunting-Grounds, and runThe fiery gauntlet of their active days,Till few are left to tell the mournful tale:And these inspire us with such wild amazeThey seem like spectres passing down a valeSteep'd in uncertain moonlight, on their wayTowards some bourn where darkness blinds the day,And night is wrapp'd in mystery profound.We cannot lift the mantle of the past:We seem to wander over hallow'd ground:We scan the trail of Thought, but all is overcast.

Myfootsteps press where, centuries ago,

The Red Men fought and conquer'd; lost and won.

Whole tribes and races, gone like last year's snow,

Have found the Eternal Hunting-Grounds, and run

The fiery gauntlet of their active days,

Till few are left to tell the mournful tale:

And these inspire us with such wild amaze

They seem like spectres passing down a vale

Steep'd in uncertain moonlight, on their way

Towards some bourn where darkness blinds the day,

And night is wrapp'd in mystery profound.

We cannot lift the mantle of the past:

We seem to wander over hallow'd ground:

We scan the trail of Thought, but all is overcast.

There was a time—and that is all we know!No record lives of their ensanguin'd deeds:The past seems palsied with some giant blow,And grows the more obscure on what it feeds.A rotted fragment of a human leaf;A few stray skulls; a heap of human bones!These are the records—the traditions brief—'Twere easier far to read the speechless stones.The fierce Ojibwas, with tornado force,Striking white terror to the hearts of braves!The mighty Hurons, rolling on their course,Compact and steady as the ocean waves!The fiery Iroquois, a warrior host!Who were they?—Whence?—And why? no humantongue can boast!

There was a time—and that is all we know!

No record lives of their ensanguin'd deeds:

The past seems palsied with some giant blow,

And grows the more obscure on what it feeds.

A rotted fragment of a human leaf;

A few stray skulls; a heap of human bones!

These are the records—the traditions brief—

'Twere easier far to read the speechless stones.

The fierce Ojibwas, with tornado force,

Striking white terror to the hearts of braves!

The mighty Hurons, rolling on their course,

Compact and steady as the ocean waves!

The fiery Iroquois, a warrior host!

Who were they?—Whence?—And why? no human

tongue can boast!

Theworld into which Cowper came was one very adverse to him, and at the same time very much in need of him. It was a world from which the spirit of poetry seemed to have fled. There could be no stronger proof of this than the occupation of the throne of Spenser, Shakespeare, and Milton, by the arch-versifier Pope. The Revolution of 1688 was glorious, but unlike the Puritan Revolution which it followed, and in the political sphere partly ratified, it was profoundly prosaic. Spiritual religion, the source of Puritan grandeur and of the poetry of Milton, was almost extinct; there was not much more of it among the Nonconformists, who had now become to a great extent mere Whigs, with a decided Unitarian tendency. The Church was little better than a political force cultivated and manipulated by political leaders for their own purposes. The Bishops were either politicians, or theological polemics collecting trophies of victory over free-thinkers as titles to higher preferment. The inferior clergy as a body were far nearer in character to Trulliber than to Dr. Primrose; coarse, sordid, neglectful of their duties, shamelessly addicted to sinecurism and pluralities, fanatics in their Toryism and in attachment to their corporate privileges, cold, rationalistic, and almost heathen in their preachings, if they preached at all. The society of the day is mirrored in the pictures of Hogarth in the works of Fielding and Smollett; hard and heartless polish was the best of it; and not a little of it wasMarriageàla Mode. Chesterfield, with his soulless culture, his court graces, and his fashionable immoralities, was about the highest type of an English gentleman; but the Wilkeses, Potters, and Sandwiches, whose mania for vice culminated in the Hell-fire Club, were more numerous than the Chesterfields. Among the country squires, for one Allworthy, or Sir Roger de Coverley, there were many Westerns. Among the common people religion was almost extinct, and assuredly no new morality or sentiment, such as Positivists now promise, had taken its place. Sometimes the rustic thought for himself, and scepticism took formal possession of his mind; but as we see from one of Cowper's letters, it was a coarse scepticism which desired to be buried with its hounds. Ignorance and brutality reigned in the cottage. Drunkenness reigned in palace and cottage alike. Gambling, cock-fighting, and bull-fighting were the amusements of the people. Political life, which, if it had been pure and vigorous, might have made up for the absence of spiritual influences, was corrupt from the top of the scale to the bottom: its effect on national character is portrayed in Hogarth'sElection. That property had its duties as well as its rights, nobody had yet ventured to say or think. The duty of a gentleman towards his own class was to pay his debts of honor, and to fight a duel whenever he was challenged by one of his own order; towards the lower class his duty was none. Though the forms of government were elective, and Cowper gives us a description of the candidate at election time obsequiously soliciting votes, society was intensely aristocratic, and each rank was divided from that below it by a sharp line which precluded brotherhood or sympathy. Says the Duchess of Buckingham to Lady Huntingdon, who had asked her to come and hear Whitefield, "I thank your ladyship for the information concerning the Methodist preachers; their doctrines are most repulsive, and strongly tinctured with disrespect towards their superiors, in perpetually endeavoring to level all ranks and do away with all distinctions. It is monstrous to be told you have a heart as sinful as the common wretches that crawl on the earth. This is highly offensive and insulting; and I cannot but wonder that your ladyship should relish any sentiments so much at variance with high rank and good breeding. I shall be most happy to come and hear your favorite preacher." Her Grace's sentiments towards the common wretches that crawl on the earth were shared, we may be sure, by her Grace's waiting-maid. Of humanity there was as little as there was of religion. It was the age of the criminal law which hanged men for petty thefts, of life-long imprisonment for debt, of the stocks and the pillory, of a Temple Bar garnished with the heads of traitors, of the unreformed prison system, of the press-gang, of unrestrained tyranny and savagery at public schools. That the slave trade was iniquitous hardly any one suspected; even men who deemed themselves religious took part in it without scruple. But a change was at hand, and a still mightier change was in prospect. At the time of Cowper's birth, John Wesley was twenty-eight, and Whitefield was seventeen. With them the revival of religion, was at hand. Johnson, the moral reformer, was twenty-two. Howard was born, and in less than a generation Wilberforce was to come.

That is best blood that hath most iron in 'tTo edge resolve with, pouring without stintFor what makes manhood dear.James Russell Lowell.

That is best blood that hath most iron in 'tTo edge resolve with, pouring without stintFor what makes manhood dear.

James Russell Lowell.

Supposeit were perfectly certain that the life and fortune of every one of us would, one day or other, depend upon his winning or losing a game at chess. Don't you think that we should all consider it to be a primary duty to learn at least the names and the moves of the pieces; to have a notion of a gambit, and a keen eye for all the means of giving and getting out of check? Do you not think that we should look with a disapprobation amounting to scorn, upon the father who allowed his son, or the state which allowed its members, to grow up without knowing a pawn from a knight?Yet it is a very plain and elementary truth, that the life, the fortune, and the happiness of every one of us, and, more or less, of those who are connected with us, do depend upon our knowing something of the rules of a game infinitely more difficult and complicated than chess. It is a game which has been played for untold ages, every man and woman of us being one of the two players in a game of his or her own. The chess-board is the world, the pieces are the phenomena of the universe, the rules of the game are what we call the laws of Nature. The player on the other side is hidden from us. We know that his play is always fair, just, and patient. But also we know, to our cost, that he never overlooks a mistake, or makes the smallest allowance for ignorance. To the man who plays well, the highest stakes are paid, with that sort of overflowing generosity with which the strong shows delight in strength. And one who plays ill is checkmated—without haste, but without remorse.My metaphor will remind some of you of the famous picture in which Retzsch has depicted Satan playing at chess with man for his soul. Substitute for the mocking fiend in that picture, a calm, strong angel, who is playing for love, as we say, and would rather lose than win—and I should accept it as an image of human life.Well, what I mean by Education, is learning the rules of this mighty game. In other words, education is the instruction of the intellect in the laws of Nature, under which name I include not merely things and their forces, but men and their ways; and the fashioning of the affections and of the will into an earnest and loving desire to move in harmony with those laws. For me, education means neither more nor less than this. Anything which professes to call itself education must be tried by this standard, and if it fails to stand the test, I will not call it education, whatever may be the force of authority, or of numbers, upon the other side.It is important to remember that, in strictness, there is no such thing as an uneducated man. Take an extreme case. Suppose that an adult man, in the full vigor of his faculties, could be suddenly placed in the world, as Adam is said to have been, and then left to do as he best might. How long would he be left uneducated? Not five minutes. Nature would begin to teach him, through the eye, the ear, the touch, the properties of objects. Pain and pleasure would be at his elbow telling him to do this and avoid that; and by slow degrees the man would receive an education, which, if narrow, would be thorough, real, and adequate to his circumstances, though there would be no extras and very few accomplishments.And if to this solitary man entered a second Adam,or, better still, an Eve, a new and greater world, that of social and moral phenomena, would be revealed. Joys and woes, compared with which all others might seem but faint shadows, would spring from the new relations. Happiness and sorrow would take the place of the coarser monitors, pleasure and pain; but conduct would still be shaped by the observation of the natural consequences of actions; or, in other words, by the laws of the nature of man.To every one of us the world was once as fresh and new as to Adam. And then, long before we were susceptible of any other mode of instruction, Nature took us in hand, and every minute of waking life brought its educational influence, shaping our actions into rough accordance with Nature's laws, so that we might not be ended untimely by too gross disobedience. Nor should I speak of this process of education as past for any one, be he as old as he may. For every man, the world is as fresh as it was at the first day, and as full of untold novelties for him who has the eyes to see them. And Nature is still continuing her patient education of us in that great university, the universe, of which we are all members—Nature having no Test-Acts.Those who take honors in Nature's university, who learn the laws which govern men and things, and obey them, are the really great and successful men in this world. The great mass of mankind are the "Poll," who pick up just enough to get through without much discredit. Those who won't learn at all are plucked; and then you can't come up again. Nature's pluck means extermination.Thus the question of compulsory education is settled so far as Nature is concerned. Her bill on that questionwas framed and passed long ago. But, like all compulsory legislation, that of Nature is harsh and wasteful in its operation. Ignorance is visited as sharply as wilful disobedience—incapacity meets with the same punishment as crime. Nature's discipline is not even a word and a blow, and the blow first; but the blow without the word. It is left to you to find out why your ears are boxed.The object of what we commonly call education—that education in which man intervenes and which I shall distinguish as artificial education—is to make good these defects in Nature's methods; to prepare the child to receive Nature's education, neither incapably nor ignorantly, nor with wilful disobedience; and to understand the preliminary symptoms of her displeasure, without waiting for the box on the ear. In short, all artificial education ought to be an anticipation of natural education. And a liberal education is an artificial education, which has not only prepared a man to escape the great evils of disobedience to natural laws, but has trained him to appreciate and to seize upon the rewards which Nature scatters with as free a hand as her penalties.That man, I think, has had a liberal education, who has been so trained in youth that his body is the ready servant of his will, and does with ease and pleasure all the work that, as a mechanism, it is capable of; whose intellect is a clear, cold, logic engine, with all its parts of equal strength, and in smooth working order; ready, like a steam engine, to be turned to any kind of work, and spin the gossamers as well as forge the anchors of the mind; whose mind is stored with a knowledge of the great and fundamental truths of Nature and of the laws of her operations; one, who, no stunted ascetic, is full oflife and fire, but whose passions are trained to come to heel by a vigorous will, the servant of a tender conscience; who has learned to love all beauty, whether of Nature or of art, to hate all vileness, and to respect others as himself.Such an one and no other, I conceive, has had a liberal education; for he is, as completely as a man can be, in harmony with Nature. He will make the best of her, and she of him. They will get on together rarely; she as his ever beneficent mother; he as her mouth-piece, her conscious self, her minister and interpreter.

Yet it is a very plain and elementary truth, that the life, the fortune, and the happiness of every one of us, and, more or less, of those who are connected with us, do depend upon our knowing something of the rules of a game infinitely more difficult and complicated than chess. It is a game which has been played for untold ages, every man and woman of us being one of the two players in a game of his or her own. The chess-board is the world, the pieces are the phenomena of the universe, the rules of the game are what we call the laws of Nature. The player on the other side is hidden from us. We know that his play is always fair, just, and patient. But also we know, to our cost, that he never overlooks a mistake, or makes the smallest allowance for ignorance. To the man who plays well, the highest stakes are paid, with that sort of overflowing generosity with which the strong shows delight in strength. And one who plays ill is checkmated—without haste, but without remorse.

My metaphor will remind some of you of the famous picture in which Retzsch has depicted Satan playing at chess with man for his soul. Substitute for the mocking fiend in that picture, a calm, strong angel, who is playing for love, as we say, and would rather lose than win—and I should accept it as an image of human life.

Well, what I mean by Education, is learning the rules of this mighty game. In other words, education is the instruction of the intellect in the laws of Nature, under which name I include not merely things and their forces, but men and their ways; and the fashioning of the affections and of the will into an earnest and loving desire to move in harmony with those laws. For me, education means neither more nor less than this. Anything which professes to call itself education must be tried by this standard, and if it fails to stand the test, I will not call it education, whatever may be the force of authority, or of numbers, upon the other side.

It is important to remember that, in strictness, there is no such thing as an uneducated man. Take an extreme case. Suppose that an adult man, in the full vigor of his faculties, could be suddenly placed in the world, as Adam is said to have been, and then left to do as he best might. How long would he be left uneducated? Not five minutes. Nature would begin to teach him, through the eye, the ear, the touch, the properties of objects. Pain and pleasure would be at his elbow telling him to do this and avoid that; and by slow degrees the man would receive an education, which, if narrow, would be thorough, real, and adequate to his circumstances, though there would be no extras and very few accomplishments.

And if to this solitary man entered a second Adam,or, better still, an Eve, a new and greater world, that of social and moral phenomena, would be revealed. Joys and woes, compared with which all others might seem but faint shadows, would spring from the new relations. Happiness and sorrow would take the place of the coarser monitors, pleasure and pain; but conduct would still be shaped by the observation of the natural consequences of actions; or, in other words, by the laws of the nature of man.

To every one of us the world was once as fresh and new as to Adam. And then, long before we were susceptible of any other mode of instruction, Nature took us in hand, and every minute of waking life brought its educational influence, shaping our actions into rough accordance with Nature's laws, so that we might not be ended untimely by too gross disobedience. Nor should I speak of this process of education as past for any one, be he as old as he may. For every man, the world is as fresh as it was at the first day, and as full of untold novelties for him who has the eyes to see them. And Nature is still continuing her patient education of us in that great university, the universe, of which we are all members—Nature having no Test-Acts.

Those who take honors in Nature's university, who learn the laws which govern men and things, and obey them, are the really great and successful men in this world. The great mass of mankind are the "Poll," who pick up just enough to get through without much discredit. Those who won't learn at all are plucked; and then you can't come up again. Nature's pluck means extermination.

Thus the question of compulsory education is settled so far as Nature is concerned. Her bill on that questionwas framed and passed long ago. But, like all compulsory legislation, that of Nature is harsh and wasteful in its operation. Ignorance is visited as sharply as wilful disobedience—incapacity meets with the same punishment as crime. Nature's discipline is not even a word and a blow, and the blow first; but the blow without the word. It is left to you to find out why your ears are boxed.

The object of what we commonly call education—that education in which man intervenes and which I shall distinguish as artificial education—is to make good these defects in Nature's methods; to prepare the child to receive Nature's education, neither incapably nor ignorantly, nor with wilful disobedience; and to understand the preliminary symptoms of her displeasure, without waiting for the box on the ear. In short, all artificial education ought to be an anticipation of natural education. And a liberal education is an artificial education, which has not only prepared a man to escape the great evils of disobedience to natural laws, but has trained him to appreciate and to seize upon the rewards which Nature scatters with as free a hand as her penalties.

That man, I think, has had a liberal education, who has been so trained in youth that his body is the ready servant of his will, and does with ease and pleasure all the work that, as a mechanism, it is capable of; whose intellect is a clear, cold, logic engine, with all its parts of equal strength, and in smooth working order; ready, like a steam engine, to be turned to any kind of work, and spin the gossamers as well as forge the anchors of the mind; whose mind is stored with a knowledge of the great and fundamental truths of Nature and of the laws of her operations; one, who, no stunted ascetic, is full oflife and fire, but whose passions are trained to come to heel by a vigorous will, the servant of a tender conscience; who has learned to love all beauty, whether of Nature or of art, to hate all vileness, and to respect others as himself.

Such an one and no other, I conceive, has had a liberal education; for he is, as completely as a man can be, in harmony with Nature. He will make the best of her, and she of him. They will get on together rarely; she as his ever beneficent mother; he as her mouth-piece, her conscious self, her minister and interpreter.

Couldye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas,In the old likeness that I knew,I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas,Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.Never a scornful word should grieve ye,I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do,—Sweet as your smile on me shone ever,Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.O to call back the days that are not!My eyes were blinded, your words were few;Do you know the truth now up in heaven,Douglas, Douglas, tender and true?I never was worthy of you, Douglas,Not half worthy the like of you;Now all men beside seem to me like shadows,—I loveyou, Douglas, tender and true.Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas,Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew,As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas,Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

Couldye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas,In the old likeness that I knew,I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas,Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

Never a scornful word should grieve ye,I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do,—Sweet as your smile on me shone ever,Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

O to call back the days that are not!My eyes were blinded, your words were few;Do you know the truth now up in heaven,Douglas, Douglas, tender and true?

I never was worthy of you, Douglas,Not half worthy the like of you;Now all men beside seem to me like shadows,—I loveyou, Douglas, tender and true.

Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas,Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew,As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas,Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

"O whereare you going with your love-locks flowing,On the west wind blowing along this valley track?""The down-hill path is easy, come with me an it please ye,We shall escape the up-hill by never turning back."So they two went together in glowing August weather,The honey-breathing heather lay to their left and right;And dear she was to doat on, her swift feet seem'd to float onThe air like soft twin pigeons too sportive to alight."Oh, what is that in heaven where grey cloud-flakes are seven,Where blackest clouds hang riven just at the rainy skirt?""Oh, that's a meteor sent us, a message dumb, portentous,An undecipher'd solemn signal of help or hurt.""Oh, what is that glides quickly where velvet flowers grow thickly,Their scent comes rich and sickly?" "A scaled and hooded worm.""Oh, what's that in the hollow, so pale I quake to follow?""Oh, that's a thin dead body which waits the eternal term.""Turn again, O my sweetest,—turn again, false and fleetest:This beaten way thou beatest, I fear is hell's own track.""Nay, too steep for hill mounting; nay, too late for cost counting:This down-hill path is easy, but there's no turning back."

So they two went together in glowing August weather,The honey-breathing heather lay to their left and right;And dear she was to doat on, her swift feet seem'd to float onThe air like soft twin pigeons too sportive to alight.

"Oh, what is that in heaven where grey cloud-flakes are seven,Where blackest clouds hang riven just at the rainy skirt?""Oh, that's a meteor sent us, a message dumb, portentous,An undecipher'd solemn signal of help or hurt."

"Oh, what is that glides quickly where velvet flowers grow thickly,Their scent comes rich and sickly?" "A scaled and hooded worm.""Oh, what's that in the hollow, so pale I quake to follow?""Oh, that's a thin dead body which waits the eternal term."

"Turn again, O my sweetest,—turn again, false and fleetest:This beaten way thou beatest, I fear is hell's own track.""Nay, too steep for hill mounting; nay, too late for cost counting:This down-hill path is easy, but there's no turning back."

Pritheetell me, Dimple-Chin,At what age does love begin?Your blue eyes have scarcely seenSummers three, my fairy queen,But a miracle of sweets,Soft approaches, sly retreats,Show the little archer there,Hidden in your pretty hair;When didst learn a heart to win?Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin!"Oh!" the rosy lips reply,"I can't tell you if I try.Tis so long I can't remember:Ask some younger lass than I."

Pritheetell me, Dimple-Chin,

At what age does love begin?

Your blue eyes have scarcely seen

Summers three, my fairy queen,

But a miracle of sweets,

Soft approaches, sly retreats,

Show the little archer there,

Hidden in your pretty hair;

When didst learn a heart to win?

Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin!

"Oh!" the rosy lips reply,

"I can't tell you if I try.

Tis so long I can't remember:

Ask some younger lass than I."

Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face,Do your heart and head keep pace?When does hoary Love expire,When do frosts put out the fire?Can its embers burn belowAll that chill December snow?Care you still soft hands to press,Bonny heads to smooth and bless?When does Love give up the chase?Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face!"Ah!" the wise old lips reply,"Youth may pass and strength may die;But of Love I can't foretoken:Ask some older sage than I!"

Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face,

Do your heart and head keep pace?

When does hoary Love expire,

When do frosts put out the fire?

Can its embers burn below

All that chill December snow?

Care you still soft hands to press,

Bonny heads to smooth and bless?

When does Love give up the chase?

Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face!

"Ah!" the wise old lips reply,

"Youth may pass and strength may die;

But of Love I can't foretoken:

Ask some older sage than I!"

While men pay reverence to mighty things,They must revere thee, thou blue-cinctured isleOf England—not to-day, but this long whileIn the front of nations, Mother of great kings,Soldiers, and poets. Round thee the Sea flingsHis steel-bright arm, and shields thee from the guileAnd hurt of France. Secure, with august smile,Thou sittest, and the East its tribute brings.Some say thy old-time power is on the wane,Thy moon of grandeur fill'd, contracts at length—They see it darkening down from less to less.Let but a hostile hand make threat again,And they shall see thee in thy ancient strength,Each iron sinew quivering, lioness!

Such kings of shreds have woo'd and won her,Such crafty knaves her laurel own'd,It has become almost an honorNot to be crown'd.Thomas Bailey Aldrich.On Popularity.

Such kings of shreds have woo'd and won her,Such crafty knaves her laurel own'd,It has become almost an honorNot to be crown'd.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich.On Popularity.

Bystudying my lady's eyesI've grown so learnèd day by day,So Machiavelian in this wise,That when I send her flowers, I sayTo each small flower (no matter what,Geranium, pink, or tuberose,Syringa, or forget-me-not,Or violet) before it goes:"Be not triumphant, little flower,When on her haughty heart you lie,But modestly enjoy your hour:She'll weary of you by-and-by."

Bystudying my lady's eyesI've grown so learnèd day by day,So Machiavelian in this wise,That when I send her flowers, I say

To each small flower (no matter what,Geranium, pink, or tuberose,Syringa, or forget-me-not,Or violet) before it goes:

"Be not triumphant, little flower,When on her haughty heart you lie,But modestly enjoy your hour:She'll weary of you by-and-by."

As hills seem Alps, when veil'd in misty shroud,Some men seem kings, through mists of ignorance;Must we have darkness, then, and cloud on cloud,To give our hills and pigmy kings a chance?Must we conspire to curse the humbling light,Lest some one, at whose feet our fathers bow'd,Should suddenly appear, full length, in sight,Scaring to laughter the adoring crowd?Oh, no! God send us light!—Who loses then?The king of slaves and not the king of men.True kings are kings for ever, crown'd of God,The King of Kings,—we need not fear for them.'Tis only the usurper's diademThat shakes at touch of light, revealing fraud.

Inmy ear is the moan of the pines—in my heart is thesong of the sea,And I feel his salt breath on my face as he showers his kisseson me,And I hear the wild scream of the gulls, as they answer thecall of the tide,And I watch the fair sails as they glisten like gems on thebreastof a bride.From the rock where I stand to the sun is a pathway ofsapphire and gold,Like a waif of those Patmian visions that wrapt the loneseer of old,And it seems to my soul like an omen that calls me farover the sea—But I think of a little white cottage and one that isdearest to me.Westward ho! Far away to the East is a cottage that looksto the shore,—Though each drop in the sea were a tear, as it was, I can seeit no more;For the heart of its pride with the flowers of the "Vale of theShadow" reclines,And—hush'd is the song of the sea and hoarse is the moanof the pines.

From the rock where I stand to the sun is a pathway ofsapphire and gold,Like a waif of those Patmian visions that wrapt the loneseer of old,And it seems to my soul like an omen that calls me farover the sea—But I think of a little white cottage and one that isdearest to me.

Westward ho! Far away to the East is a cottage that looksto the shore,—Though each drop in the sea were a tear, as it was, I can seeit no more;For the heart of its pride with the flowers of the "Vale of theShadow" reclines,And—hush'd is the song of the sea and hoarse is the moanof the pines.

Ina coign of the cliff between lowland and highland,At the sea-down's edge between windward and lee,Wall'd round with rocks as an inland island,The ghost of a garden fronts the sea.A girdle of brushwood and thorn enclosesThe steep square slope of the blossomless bedWhere the weeds that grew green from the graves of its rosesNow lie dead.The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken,To the low last edge of the long lone land.If a step should sound or a word be spoken,Would a ghost not rise at the strange guest's hand?So long have the gray bare walks lain guestless,Through branches and briers if a man make way,He shall find no life but the sea-wind's, restlessNight and day.The dense hard passage is blind and stifled,That crawls by a track none turn to climbTo the strait waste place that the years have rifledOf all but the thorns that are touch'd not of time.The thorns he spares when the rose is taken;The rocks are left when he wastes the plain.The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken,These remain.Not a flower to be prest of the foot that falls not;As the heart of a dead man the seed-plots are dry;From the thicket of thorns whence the nightingale calls not,Could she call, there were never a rose to reply.Over the meadows that blossom and witherRings but the note of sea-bird's song;Only the sun and the rain come hitherAll year long.The sun burns sere and the rain dishevelsOne gaunt bleak blossom of scentless breath.Only the wind here hovers and revelsIn a round where life seems barren as death.Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping,Haply, of lovers none ever will know,Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleepingYears ago.Heart handfast in heart as they stood, "Look thither,"Did he whisper? "Look forth from the flowers to the sea;For the foam-flowers endure when the rose-blossoms wither,And men that love lightly may die—but we?"And the same wind sang and the same waves whiten'd,And or ever the garden's last petals were shed,In the lips that had whisper'd, the eyes that had lighten'd,Love was dead.Or they lov'd their life through, and then went whither?And were one to the end—but what end who knows?Love deep as the sea as a rose must wither,As the rose-red seaweed that mocks the rose.Shall the dead take thought for the dead to love them?What love was ever as deep as a grave?They are loveless now as the grass above themOr the wave.All are at one now, roses and lovers,Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the sea.Not a breath of the time that has been hoversIn the air now soft with a summer to be.Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons hereafterOf the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or weep,When as they that are free now of weeping and laughterWe shall sleep.Here death may deal not again for ever;Here change may come not till all change end.From the graves they have made they shall rise up never,Who have left nought living to ravage and rend.Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground growing,When the sun and the rain live, these shall be;Till a last wind's breath upon all these blowingRoll the sea.Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble,Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink,Till the strength of the waves of the high tides humbleThe fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink,Here now in his triumph where all things falter,Stretch'd out on the spoils that his own hand spread,As a god self-slain on his own strange altar,Death lies dead.

The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken,To the low last edge of the long lone land.If a step should sound or a word be spoken,Would a ghost not rise at the strange guest's hand?So long have the gray bare walks lain guestless,Through branches and briers if a man make way,He shall find no life but the sea-wind's, restlessNight and day.

The dense hard passage is blind and stifled,That crawls by a track none turn to climbTo the strait waste place that the years have rifledOf all but the thorns that are touch'd not of time.The thorns he spares when the rose is taken;The rocks are left when he wastes the plain.The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken,These remain.

Not a flower to be prest of the foot that falls not;As the heart of a dead man the seed-plots are dry;From the thicket of thorns whence the nightingale calls not,Could she call, there were never a rose to reply.Over the meadows that blossom and witherRings but the note of sea-bird's song;Only the sun and the rain come hitherAll year long.

The sun burns sere and the rain dishevelsOne gaunt bleak blossom of scentless breath.Only the wind here hovers and revelsIn a round where life seems barren as death.Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping,Haply, of lovers none ever will know,Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleepingYears ago.

Heart handfast in heart as they stood, "Look thither,"Did he whisper? "Look forth from the flowers to the sea;For the foam-flowers endure when the rose-blossoms wither,And men that love lightly may die—but we?"And the same wind sang and the same waves whiten'd,And or ever the garden's last petals were shed,In the lips that had whisper'd, the eyes that had lighten'd,Love was dead.

Or they lov'd their life through, and then went whither?And were one to the end—but what end who knows?Love deep as the sea as a rose must wither,As the rose-red seaweed that mocks the rose.Shall the dead take thought for the dead to love them?What love was ever as deep as a grave?They are loveless now as the grass above themOr the wave.

All are at one now, roses and lovers,Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the sea.Not a breath of the time that has been hoversIn the air now soft with a summer to be.Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons hereafterOf the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or weep,When as they that are free now of weeping and laughterWe shall sleep.

Here death may deal not again for ever;Here change may come not till all change end.From the graves they have made they shall rise up never,Who have left nought living to ravage and rend.Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground growing,When the sun and the rain live, these shall be;Till a last wind's breath upon all these blowingRoll the sea.

Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble,Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink,Till the strength of the waves of the high tides humbleThe fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink,Here now in his triumph where all things falter,Stretch'd out on the spoils that his own hand spread,As a god self-slain on his own strange altar,Death lies dead.

King Philiphad vaunted his claims;He had sworn for a year he would sack us;With an army of heathenish namesHe was coming to fagot and stack us;Like the thieves of the sea he would track us,And shatter our ships on the main;But we had bold Neptune to back us,—And where are the galleons of Spain?His carackes were christen'd of damesTo the kirtles whereof he would tack us;With his saints and his gilded stern-frames,He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us;Now Howard may get to his Flaccus,And Drake to his Devon again,And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus,—For where are the galleons of Spain?Let his Majesty hang to St. JamesThe axe that he whetted to hack us;He must play at some lustier gamesOr at sea he can hope to out-thwack us;To his mines of Peru he would pack usTo tug at his bullet and chain;Alas! that his Greatness should lack us!—But where are the galleons of Spain?Envoy.Gloriana!—the Don may attack usWhenever his stomach be fain;He must reach us before he can rack us, ...And where are the galleons of Spain?

His carackes were christen'd of damesTo the kirtles whereof he would tack us;With his saints and his gilded stern-frames,He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us;Now Howard may get to his Flaccus,And Drake to his Devon again,And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus,—For where are the galleons of Spain?

Let his Majesty hang to St. JamesThe axe that he whetted to hack us;He must play at some lustier gamesOr at sea he can hope to out-thwack us;To his mines of Peru he would pack usTo tug at his bullet and chain;Alas! that his Greatness should lack us!—But where are the galleons of Spain?

Envoy.

Gloriana!—the Don may attack usWhenever his stomach be fain;He must reach us before he can rack us, ...And where are the galleons of Spain?

He lives not best who dreads the coming painAnd shunneth each delight desirable:Flee thou extremes,this word alone is plain,Of all that God hath given to Man to spell!Andrew Lang.—1844.From Sonnets from the Antique.

He lives not best who dreads the coming painAnd shunneth each delight desirable:Flee thou extremes,this word alone is plain,Of all that God hath given to Man to spell!

Andrew Lang.—1844.From Sonnets from the Antique.

Inthe School of CoquettesMadame Rose is a scholar:—O, they fish with all netsIn the School of Coquettes!When her brooch she forgets'Tis to show her new collar;In the School of CoquettesMadame Rose is a scholar!

Scene.—Tecumseh'sCabin.

EnterIena.

Iena.'Tis night, and Mamatee is absent still!Why should this sorrow weigh upon my heart,And other lonely things on earth have rest?Oh, could I be with them! The lily shoneAll day upon the stream, and now it sleepsUnder the wave in peace—in cradle softWhich sorrow soon may fashion for my grave.Ye shadows which do creep into my thoughts—Ye curtains of despair! what is my fault,That ye should hide the happy earth from me?Once I had joy of it, when tender Spring,Mother of beauty, hid me in her leaves;When Summer led me by the shores of song,And forests and far-sounding cataractsMelted my soul with music. I have heardThe rough chill harpings of dismantled woods,When Fall had stripp'd them, and have felt a joyDeeper than ear could lend unto the heart;And when the Winter from his mountains wildLook'd down on death, and, in the frosty sky,The very stars seem'd hung with icicles,Then came a sense of beauty calm and cold,That wean'd me from myself, yet knit me stillWith kindred bonds to Nature. All is past,And he—who won from me such love for him,And he—my valiant uncle and my friend,Comes not to lift the cloud that drapes my soul,And shield me from the fiendish Prophet's power.

EnterMamatee.

Give me his answer in his very words!

Mamatee.There is a black storm raging in his mind—His eye darts lightning like the angry cloudWhich hangs in woven darkness o'er the earth.Brief is his answer—you must go to him.The Long-Knife's camp-fires gleam among the oaksWhich dot yon western hill. A thousand menAre sleeping there cajoled to fatal dreamsBy promises the Prophet breaks to-night.Hark! 'tis the war-song.

Iena.Dares the Prophet nowBetray Tecumseh's trust, and break his faith?Mamatee.He dares do anything will feed ambition.His dancing braves are frenzied by his tongue,Which prophesies revenge and victory.Before the break of day he will surpriseThe Long-Knife's camp, and hang our people's fateUpon a single onset.

Iena.Should he fail?

Mamatee.Then all will fail;—Tecumseh's scheme will fail.[R]

Iena.It shall not! Let us go to him at once!

Mamatee.And risk your life?

Iena.Risk hovers everywhereWhen night and man combine for darksome deeds.I'll go to him, and argue on my knees—Yea, yield my hand—would I could give my heartTo stay his purpose and this act of ruin.

Mamatee.He is not in the mood for argument.Rash girl! they die who would oppose him now.Iena.Such death were sweet as life—I go! But, first—Great Spirit! I commit my soul to Thee.[Kneels.

Scene.—An open space in the forest near the Prophet's Town. A fire of billets burning. War-cries are heard from the town.

Enter theProphet.

Prophet.My spells do work apace! Shout yourselves hoarse,Ye howling ministers by whom I climb!For this I've wrought until my weary tongue,Blister'd with incantation, flags in speech,And half declines its office. Every braveInflamed by charms and oracles, is nowA vengeful serpent, who will glide ere mornTo sting the Long-Knife's sleeping camp to death.Why should I hesitate? My promises!My duty to Tecumseh! What are theseCompared with duty here? Where I perceiveA near advantage, there my duty lies;Consideration strong which overweighsAll other reason. Here is Harrison—Trepann'd to dangerous lodgment for the night—Each deep ravine which grooves the prairie's breastA channel of approach; each winding creekA screen for creeping death. Revenge is sickTo think of such advantage flung aside.For what? To let Tecumseh's greatness grow,Who gathers his rich harvest of renownOut of the very fields that I have sown!By Manitou, I will endure no more!Nor, in the rising flood of our affairs,Fish like an osprey for this eagle longer.But, soft!It is the midnight hour when comesTarhay to claim his bride. [Calls.] Tarhay! Tarhay!

EnterTarhaywith several braves.

Tarhay.Tarhay is here!

Prophet.The Long-Knives die to-night.The spirits which do minister to meHave breathed this utterance within my ear.You know my sacred office cuts me offFrom the immediate leadership in fight.My nobler work is in the spirit-world,And thence come promises which make us strong.Near to the foe I'll keep the Magic Bowl,Whilst you, Tarhay, shall lead our warriors on.

Tarhay.I'll lead them; they are wild with eagerness.But fill my cold and empty cabin firstWith light and heat! You know I love your niece,And have the promise of her hand to-night.Prophet.She shall be yours![To the braves.] Go bring her here at once—But, look! Fulfilment of my promise comesIn her own person.

EnterIenaandMamatee.

Welcome, my sweet niece!You have forstall'd my message by these braves,And come unbidden to your wedding-place.

Iena.Uncle! you know my heart is far away—

Prophet.But still your hand is here! this little hand![Pulling her forward.

Iena.Dare you enforce a weak and helpless girl,Who thought to move you by her misery?Stand back! I have a message for you too.What means the war-like song, the dance of braves,And bustle in our town?

Prophet.It means that weAttack the foe to-night.

Iena.And risk our all?O that Tecumseh knew! his soul would rushIn arms to intercept you. What! break faith,And on the hazard of a doubtful strife,Stake his great enterprise and all our lives!The dying curses of a ruin'd raceWill wither up your wicked heart for this!

Prophet.False girl! your heart is with our foes;Your hand I mean to turn to better use.Iena.Oh, could it turn you from your mad intentHow freely would I give it! Drop this scheme,Dismiss your frenzied warriors to their beds;And, if contented with my hand, TarhayCan have it here.

Tarhay.I love you, Iena!Iena.Then must you love what I do! Love our race!'Tis this love nerves Tecumseh to uniteIts scatter'd tribes—his fruit of noble toil,Which you would snatch unripen'd from his hand,And feed to sour ambition. Touch it not—Oh, touch it not, Tarhay! and though my heartBreaks for it, I am yours.

Prophet.His anyway,Or I am not the Prophet!

Tarhay.For my partI have no leaning to this rash attempt,Since Iena consents to be my wife.

Prophet.Shall I be thwarted by a yearning fool![Aside.This soft, sleek girl, to outward seeming good,I know to be a very fiend beneath—Whose sly affections centre on herself,And feed the gliding snake within her heart.Tarhay.I cannot think her so—

Mamatee.She is not so!There is the snake that creeps among our race;Whose venom'd fangs would bile into our lives,And poison all our hopes.

Prophet.She is the head—The very neck of danger to me here,Which I must break at once! [Aside.] Tarhay—attend!I can see dreadful visions in the air;I can dream awful dreams of life and fate;I can bring darkness on the heavy earth;I can fetch shadows from our fathers' graves,And spectres from the sepulchres of hell.Who dares dispute with me, disputes with death!Dost hear, Tarhay?

[Tarhayand braves cower before theProphet.

Tarhay.I hear, and will obey.Spare me! Spare me!

Prophet.As for this foolish girl,The hand she offers you on one condition,I give to you upon a better one;And, since she has no mind to give her heart—Which, rest assured, is in her body still—There,—take it at my hands![FlingsIenaviolently towardsTarhay,into whose arms shefalls fainting, and is then borne away byMamatee.[ToTarhay.] Go bring the braves to view the Mystic TorchAnd belt of Sacred Beans grown from my flesh—One touch of it makes them invulnerable—Then creep, like stealthy panthers, on the foe!

Scene.—Morning. The field of Tippecanoe after the battle. The ground strewn with dead soldiers and warriors.

EnterHarrison,officers and soldiers, andBarron.

Harrison.A costly triumph reckon'd by our slain!Look how some lie still clench'd with savagesIn all-embracing death, their bloody handsGlued in each other's hair! Make burial straightOf all alike in deep and common graves:Their quarrel now is ended.

1st Officer.I have heardThe red man fears our steel—'twas not so here;From the first shots, which drove our pickets in,Till daylight dawn'd, they rush'd upon our lines,And flung themselves upon our bayonet pointsIn frenzied recklessness of bravery.

Barron.They trusted in the Prophet's rites and spells,Which promis'd them immunity from death.All night he sat on yon safe eminence,Howling his songs of war and mystery,Then fled, at dawn, in fear of his own braves.

Enter anAide.

Harrison.What tidings bring you from the Prophet's Town?Aide.The wretched women with their children flyTo distant forests for concealment. InTheir village is no living thing save miceWhich scamper'd as we oped each cabin door.Their pots still simmer'd on the vacant hearths,Standing in dusty silence and desertion.Naught else we saw, save that their granariesWere cramm'd with needful corn.

Harrison.Go bring it all—Then burn their village down![ExitAide.

2nd Officer.This victoryWill shake Tecumseh's project to the base.Were I the Prophet I should drown myselfRather than meet him.

Barron.We have news of him—Our scouts report him near in heavy force.

Harrison.'Twill melt, or draw across the British line,And wait for war. But double the night watch,Lest he should strike, and give an instant careTo all our wounded men: to-morrow's sunMust light us on our backward march for home.Thence Rumor's tongue will spread so proud a storyNew England will grow envious of our glory;And, greedy for renown so long abhorr'd,Will on old England draw the tardy sword!

Scene.—The Ruins of the Prophet's Town.

Enter theProphet,who gloomily surveys the place.

Prophet.Our people scatter'd, and our town in ashes!To think these hands could work such madness here—This envious head devise this misery!Tecumseh, had not my ambition drawnSuch sharp and fell destruction on our raceYou might have smiled at me! for I have match'dMy cunning 'gainst your wisdom, and have dragg'dMyself and all into a sea of ruin.

EnterTecumseh.

Tecumseh.Devil! I have discover'd you at last!You sum of treacheries, whose wolfish fangsHave torn our people's flesh—you shall not live!

[TheProphetretreats facing and followed byTecumseh.

Prophet.Nay—strike me not! I can explain it all!It was a woman touch'd the Magic Bowl,And broke the brooding spell.

Tecumseh.Impostor! Slave!Why should I spare you?[Lifts his hand as if to strike.

Prophet.Stay, stay, touch me not!One mother bore us in the self-same hour.

Tecumseh.Then good and evil came to light together.Go to the corn-dance, change your name to villain!Away! Your presence tempts my soul to mischief.[Exit theProphethastily.Would that I were a woman, and could weep,And slake hot rage with tears! O spiteful fortune,To lure me to the limit of my dreams,Then turn and crowd the ruin of my toilInto the narrow compass of a night!My brother's deep disgrace—myself the scornOf envious harriers and thieves of fame,Who fain would rob me of the lawful meedOf faithful services and duties done—Oh, I could bear it all! But to beholdOur ruin'd people hunted to their graves—To see the Long-Knife triumph in their shame—This is the burning shaft, the poison'd woundThat rankles in my soul! But, why despair?All is not lost—the English are our friends.My spirit rises—manhood bear me up!I'll haste to Malden, join my force to theirs,And fall with double fury on our foes.Farewell ye plains and forests, but rejoice!Ye yet shall echo to Tecumseh's voice.

EnterLefroy.

Lefroy.What tidings have you glean'd of Iena?

Tecumseh.My brother meant to wed her to Tarhay—The chief who led his warriors to ruin;But, in the gloom and tumult of the night,She fled into the forest all alone.

Lefroy.Alone! In the wide forest all alone!Angels are with her now, for she is dead.Tecumseh.You know her to be skilful with the bow.'Tis certain she would strike for some great Lake—Erie or Michigan. At the DetroitAre people of our nation, and perchanceShe fled for shelter there. I go at onceTo join the British force.[ExitTecumseh.

Lefroy.But yesterdayI climb'd to Heaven upon the shining stairsOf love and hope, and here am quite cast down.My little flower amidst a weedy world,Where art thou now? In deepest forest shade?Or onward, where the sumach stands array'dIn autumn splendor, its alluring formFruited, yet odious with the hidden worm?Or, farther, by some still sequester'd lake,Loon-haunted, where the sinewy panthers slakeTheir noon-day thirst, and never voice is heardJoyous of singing waters, breeze or bird,Save their wild wailings.—[A halloo without.] 'Tis Tecumseh calls!Oh Iena! If dead, where'er thou art—Thy saddest grave will be this ruin'd heart![Exit.

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