XXII.HIAWATHA'S DEPARTURE.

Came a great canoe with pinions,"Came a great canoe with pinions,A canoe with wings came flying,"

"Came a great canoe with pinions,A canoe with wings came flying,"

From his wanderings far to eastward,From the regions of the morning,From the shining land of Wabun,Homeward now returned Iagoo,140The great traveller, the great boaster,Full of new and strange adventures,Marvels many and many wonders.And the people of the villageListened to him as he told them145Of his marvellous adventures,Laughing answered him in this wise:"Ugh! it is indeed Iagoo!No one else beholds such wonders!"He had seen, he said, a water150Bigger than the Big-Sea-Water,Broader than the Gitche Gumee,Bitter so that none could drink it!At each other looked the warriors,Looked the women at each other,155Smiled, and said, "It cannot be so!Kaw!" they said, "it cannot be so!"O'er it, said he, o'er this waterCame a great canoe with pinions,A canoe with wings came flying,160Bigger than a grove of pine-trees,Taller than the tallest tree-tops!And the old men and the womenLooked and tittered at each other;"Kaw!" they said, "we don't believe it!"165From its mouth, he said, to greet him,Came Waywassimo, the lightning,Came the thunder, Annemeekee!And the warriors and the womenLaughed aloud at poor Iagoo;170"Kaw!" they said, "what tales you tell us!"In it, said he, came a people,In the great canoe with pinionsCame, he said, a hundred warriors;Painted white were all their faces,175And with hair their chins were covered!And the warriors and the womenLaughed and shouted in derision,Like the ravens on the tree-tops,Like the crows upon the hemlocks.180"Kaw!" they said, "what lies you tell us!Do not think that we believe them!"

And the land was full of people"And the land was full of peopleRestless, struggling, toiling, striving* * Over all the lakes and rivers.Rushed their great canoes of thunder.

"And the land was full of peopleRestless, struggling, toiling, striving* * Over all the lakes and rivers.Rushed their great canoes of thunder.

"And the land was full of peopleRestless, struggling, toiling, striving

* * Over all the lakes and rivers.Rushed their great canoes of thunder.

Only Hiawatha laughed not,But he gravely spake and answeredTo their jeering and their jesting:185"True is all Iagoo tells us;I have seen it in a vision,Seen the great canoe with pinions,Seen the people with white faces,Seen the coming of this bearded190People of the wooden vesselFrom the regions of the morning,From the shining land of Wabun."Gitche Manito the Mighty,The Great Spirit, the Creator,195Sends them hither on his errand,Sends them to us with his message.Wheresoe'er they move, before themSwarms the stinging fly, the Ahmo,Swarms the bee, the honey-maker;200Wheresoe'er they tread, beneath themSprings a flower unknown among us,Springs the White-man's Foot in blossom."Let us welcome, then, the strangers,Hail them as our friends and brothers,205And the heart's right hand of friendshipGive them when they come to see us.Gitche Manito, the Mighty,Said this to me in my vision."I beheld, too, in that vision210All the secrets of the future,Of the distant days that shall be.I beheld the westward marchesOf the unknown, crowded nations.All the land was full of people,215Restless, struggling, toiling, striving,Speaking many tongues, yet feelingBut one heart-beat in their bosoms.In the woodlands rang their axes,Smoked their towns in all the valleys,220Over all the lakes and riversRushed their great canoes of thunder."Then a darker, drearier visionPassed before me, vague and cloud-like:I beheld our nation scattered,225All forgetful of my counsels,Weakened, warring with each other;Saw the remnants of our peopleSweeping westward, wild and woful,Like the cloud-rack of a tempest,230Like the withered leaves of Autumn!"

Hunting Buffalo

By the shore of Gitche Gumee,By the shining Big-Sea-Water,At the doorway of his wigwam,In the pleasant summer morning,5Hiawatha stood and waited.All the air was full of freshness,All the earth was bright and joyous,And before him, through the sunshine,Westward toward the neighboring forest10Passed in golden swarms the Ahmo,Passed the bees, the honey-makers,Burning, singing in the sunshine.Bright above him shone the heavens,Level spread the lake before him;15From its bosom leaped the sturgeon,Sparkling, flashing in the sunshine;On its margin the great forestStood reflected in the water,Every tree-top had its shadow,20Motionless beneath the water.From the brow of HiawathaGone was every trace of sorrow,As the fog from off the water,As the mist from off the meadow.25With a smile of joy and triumph,With a look of exultation,As of one who in a visionSees what is to be, but is not,Stood and waited Hiawatha.30Toward the sun his hands were lifted,Both the palms spread out against it,And between the parted fingersFell the sunshine on his features,Flecked with light his naked shoulders,35As it falls and flecks an oak-treeThrough the rifted leaves and branches.O'er the water floating, flying,Something in the hazy distance,Something in the mists of morning,40Loomed and lifted from the water,Now seemed floating, now seemed flying,Coming nearer, nearer, nearer.Was it Shingebis the diver?Was it the pelican, the Shada?45Or the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah?Or the white goose, Waw-be-wawa,With the water dripping, flashingFrom its glossy neck and feathers?It was neither goose nor diver,50Neither pelican nor heron,O'er the water, floating, flying,Through the shining mist of morning,But a birch canoe with paddles,Rising, sinking on the water,55Dripping, flashing in the sunshine;And within it came a peopleFrom the distant land of Wabun,From the farthest realms of morningCame the Black-Robe chief, the Prophet,60He the Priest of Prayer, the Pale-face,With his guides and his companions.And the noble Hiawatha,With his hands aloft extended,Held aloft in sign of welcome,65Waited, full of exultation,Till the birch canoe with paddlesGrated on the shining pebbles,Stranded on the sandy margin,Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face,70With the cross upon his bosom,Landed on the sandy margin.Then the joyous HiawathaCried aloud and spake in this wise:"Beautiful is the sun, O strangers,75When you come so far to see us!All our town in peace awaits you;All our doors stand open for you;You shall enter all our wigwams,For the heart's right hand we give you.80"Never bloomed the earth so gayly,Never shone the sun so brightly,As to-day they shine and blossomWhen you come so far to see us!Never was our lake so tranquil,85Nor so free from rocks and sand-bars;For your birch canoe in passingHas removed both rock and sand-bar."Never before had our tobaccoSuch a sweet and pleasant flavor,90Never the broad leaves of our corn-fieldsWere so beautiful to look on,As they seem to us this morning,When you come so far to see us!"And the Black-Robe chief made answer,95Stammered in his speech a little,Speaking words yet unfamiliar:"Peace be with you, Hiawatha,Peace be with you and your people,Peace of prayer, and peace of pardon,100Peace of Christ, and joy of Mary!"Then the generous HiawathaLed the strangers to his wigwam,Seated them on skins of bison,Seated them on skins of ermine,105And the careful old NokomisBrought them food in bowls of bass-wood,Water brought in birchen dippers,And the calumet, the peace-pipe,Filled and lighted for their smoking.

NAVAJO MATRON WEAVING A BLANKET.NAVAJO MATRON WEAVING A BLANKET."Bring a wife with nimble fingers,Heart and hand that move together."

"Bring a wife with nimble fingers,Heart and hand that move together."

Then the joyous HiawathaThen the joyous HiawathaCried aloud and spoke on this wise:* * You shall enter all our wigwamsFor the heart's right hand we give you"

Then the joyous HiawathaCried aloud and spoke on this wise:* * You shall enter all our wigwamsFor the heart's right hand we give you"

Then the joyous HiawathaCried aloud and spoke on this wise:

* * You shall enter all our wigwamsFor the heart's right hand we give you"

110All the old men of the village,All the warriors of the nation,All the Jossakeeds, the prophets,The magicians, the Wabenos,And the medicine-men, the Medas,115Came to bid the strangers welcome;"It is well," they said, "O brothers,That you come so far to see us;"In a circle round the doorway,With their pipes they sat in silence,120Waiting to behold the strangers,Waiting to receive their message;Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face,From the wigwam came to greet them,Stammering in his speech a little,125Speaking words yet unfamiliar;"It is well," they said, "O brother,That you come so far to see us!"Then the Black-Robe chief, the prophet,Told his message to the people,130Told the purport of his mission,Told them of the Virgin Mary,And her blessed Son, the Saviour,How in distant lands and agesHe had lived on earth as we do;135How he fasted, prayed, and labored;How the Jews, the tribe accursed,Mocked him, scourged him, crucified him;How he rose from where they laid him,Walked again with his disciples,140And ascended into heaven.And the chiefs made answer, saying:"We have listened to your message,We have heard your words of wisdom,We will think on what you tell us.145It is well for us, O brothers,That you come so far to see us!"Then they rose up and departedEach one homeward to his wigwam,To the young men and the women150Told the story of the strangersWhom the Master of Life had sent themFrom the shining land of Wabun.

Then the Black-Robe chief, the prophet,"Then the Black-Robe chief, the prophet,Told his message to the people."

"Then the Black-Robe chief, the prophet,Told his message to the people."

Heavy with the heat and silenceGrew the afternoon of Summer,155With a drowsy sound the forestWhispered round the sultry wigwam,With a sound of sleep the waterRippled on the beach below it;From the corn-fields shrill and ceaseless160Sang the grasshopper, Pah-puk-keena;And the guests of Hiawatha,Weary with the heat of Summer,Slumbered in the sultry wigwam.Slowly o'er the simmering landscape165Fell the evening's dusk and coolness,And the long and level sunbeamsShot their spears into the forest,Breaking through its shields of shadow,Rushed into each secret ambush,170Searched each thicket, dingle, hollow;Still the guests of HiawathaSlumbered in the silent wigwam.From his place rose Hiawatha,Bade farewell to old Nokomis,175Spake in whispers, spake in this wise,Did not wake the guests, that slumbered:"I am going, O Nokomis,On a long and distant journey,To the portals of the Sunset,180To the regions of the home-wind,Of the Northwest wind, Keewaydin.But these guests I leave behind me,In your watch and ward I leave them;See that never harm comes near them,185See that never fear molests them,Never danger nor suspicion,Never want of food or shelter,In the lodge of Hiawatha!"Forth into the village went he,190Bade farewell to all the warriors,Bade farewell to all the young men,Spake persuading, spake in this wise:"I am going, O my people,On a long and distant journey;195Many moons and many wintersWill have come, and will have vanished,Ere I come again to see you.But my guests I leave behind me;Listen to their words of wisdom,200Listen to the truth they tell you,For the Master of Life has sent themFrom the land of light and morning!"On the shore stood Hiawatha,Turned and waved his hand at parting;205On the clear and luminous waterLaunched his birch canoe for sailing,From the pebbles of the marginShoved it forth into the water;Whispered to it, "Westward! westward!"210And with speed it darted forward.And the evening sun descendingSet the clouds on fire with redness,Burned the broad sky, like a prairie,Left upon the level water215One long track and trail of splendor,Down whose stream, as down a river,Westward, westward HiawathaSailed into the fiery sunset,Sailed into the purple vapors,220Sailed into the dusk of evening.And the people from the marginWatched him floating, rising, sinking,Till the birch canoe seemed liftedHigh into that sea of splendor,225Till it sank into the vaporsLike the new moon slowly, slowlySinking in the purple distance.And they said, "Farewell forever!"Said, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"230And the forests, dark and lonely,Moved through all their depths of darkness,Sighed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"And the waves upon the marginRising, rippling on the pebbles,235Sobbed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,From her haunts among the fen-lands,Screamed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"Thus departed Hiawatha,240Hiawatha the Beloved,In the glory of the sunset,In the purple mists of evening,To the regions of the home-wind,Of the Northwest wind, Keewaydin,245To the Islands of the Blessed,To the kingdom of Ponemah,To the land of the Hereafter!

Decoration.

[The following Ballad was suggested to me while riding on the seashore at Newport. A year or two previous a skeleton had been dug up at Fall River, clad in broken and corroded armor; and the idea occurred to me of connecting it with the Round Tower at Newport, generally known hitherto as the Old Wind-Mill, though now claimed by the Danes as a work of their early ancestors. Professor Rafn, in theMémoires de la Société Royale des Antiquaires du Nord, for 1838-1839, says:"There is no mistaking in this instance the style in which the more ancient stone edifices of the North were constructed, the style which belongs to the Roman or Ante-Gothic architecture, and which, especially, after the time of Charlemagne, diffused itself from Italy over the whole of the West and the North of Europe, where it continued to predominate until the close of the 12th century; that style, which some authors have, from one of its most striking characteristics, called the round arch style, the same which in England is denominated Saxon and sometimes Norman architecture."On the ancient structure in Newport there are no ornaments remaining, which might possible have served to guide us in assigning the probably date of its erection. That no vestige whatever is found of the pointed arch nor any approximation to it, is indicative ofan earlier rather than of a later period. From such characteristics as remain, however, we can scarcely form any other inference than one, in which I am persuaded that all, who are familiar with Old-Northern architecture will concur, THAT THIS BUILDING WAS ERECTED AT A PERIOD DECIDEDLY NOT LATER THAN THE 12TH CENTURY. This remark applies, of course, to the original building only, and not to the alterations that it subsequently received; for there are several such alterations in the upper part of the building which cannot be mistaken, and which were most likely occasioned by its being adapted in modern times to various uses, for example as the substructure of a wind-mill, and latterly as a hay magazine. To the same times may be referred the windows, the fireplace, and the apertures made above the columns. That this building could not have been erected for a wind-mill, is what an architect will easily discern."I will not enter into a discussion of the point. It is sufficiently well established for the purpose of a ballad; though doubtless many an honest citizen of Newport, who has passed his days within sight of the Round Tower, will be ready to exclaim with Sancho; "God bless me! did I not warn you to have a care of what you were doing, for that it was nothing but a wind-mill; and nobody could mistake it, but one who had the like in his head."]

"There is no mistaking in this instance the style in which the more ancient stone edifices of the North were constructed, the style which belongs to the Roman or Ante-Gothic architecture, and which, especially, after the time of Charlemagne, diffused itself from Italy over the whole of the West and the North of Europe, where it continued to predominate until the close of the 12th century; that style, which some authors have, from one of its most striking characteristics, called the round arch style, the same which in England is denominated Saxon and sometimes Norman architecture.

"On the ancient structure in Newport there are no ornaments remaining, which might possible have served to guide us in assigning the probably date of its erection. That no vestige whatever is found of the pointed arch nor any approximation to it, is indicative ofan earlier rather than of a later period. From such characteristics as remain, however, we can scarcely form any other inference than one, in which I am persuaded that all, who are familiar with Old-Northern architecture will concur, THAT THIS BUILDING WAS ERECTED AT A PERIOD DECIDEDLY NOT LATER THAN THE 12TH CENTURY. This remark applies, of course, to the original building only, and not to the alterations that it subsequently received; for there are several such alterations in the upper part of the building which cannot be mistaken, and which were most likely occasioned by its being adapted in modern times to various uses, for example as the substructure of a wind-mill, and latterly as a hay magazine. To the same times may be referred the windows, the fireplace, and the apertures made above the columns. That this building could not have been erected for a wind-mill, is what an architect will easily discern."

I will not enter into a discussion of the point. It is sufficiently well established for the purpose of a ballad; though doubtless many an honest citizen of Newport, who has passed his days within sight of the Round Tower, will be ready to exclaim with Sancho; "God bless me! did I not warn you to have a care of what you were doing, for that it was nothing but a wind-mill; and nobody could mistake it, but one who had the like in his head."]

"Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!Who, with thy hollow breastStill in rude armor drest,Comest to daunt me!Wrapt not in Eastern balms,But with thy fleshless palmsStretched, as if asking alms,Why dost thou haunt me?"Then, from those cavernous eyesPale flashes seemed to rise,As when the Northern skiesGleam in December;And, like the water's flowUnder December's snow,Came a dull voice of woeFrom the heart's chamber."I was a Viking old!My deeds, though manifold,No Skald in song has told,No Saga taught thee!Take heed, that in thy verseThou dost the tale rehearse,Else dread a dead man's curse!For this I sought thee."Far in the Northern Land,By the wild Baltic's strand,I, with my childish hand,Tamed the ger-falcon;And, with my skates fast-bound,Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,That the poor whimpering houndTrembled to walk on."Oft to his frozen lairTracked I the grisly bear,While from my path the hareFled like a shadow;Oft through the forest darkFollowed the were-wolf's barkUntil the soaring larkSang from the meadow."But when I older grew,Joining a corsair's crew,O'er the dark sea I flewWith the marauders.Wild was the life we led;Many the souls that sped,Many the hearts that bled,By our stern orders."Many a wassail-boutWore the long Winter out;Often our midnight shoutSet the cocks crowing,As we the Berserk's taleMeasured in cups of ale,Draining the oaken pail,Filled to o'erflowing."Once as I told in gleeTales of the stormy sea,Soft eyes did gaze on me,Burning yet tender;And as the white stars shineOn the dark Norway pine,On that dark heart of mineFell their soft splendor."I wooed the blue-eyed maid;Yielding, yet half afraid,And in the forest's shadeOur vows were plighted.Under its loosened vestFluttered her little breast,Like birds within their nestBy the hawk frighted."Bright in her father's hallShields gleamed upon the wall,Loud sang the minstrels all,Chaunting his glory;When of old HildebrandI asked his daughter's hand,Mute did the minstrels standTo hear my story,"While the brown ale he quaffed,Loud then the champion laughed,And as the wind-gusts waftThe sea-foam brightly,So the loud laugh of scorn,Out of those lips unshorn,From the deep drinking-hornBlew the foam lightly."She was a Prince's child,I but a Viking wild,And though she blushed and smiled,I was discarded!Should not the dove so whiteFollow the sea-mew's flight,Why did they leave that nightHer nest unguarded?"Scarce had I put to sea,Bearing the maid with me,—Fairest of all was sheAmong the Norsemen!—When on the white sea-strand,Waving his armed hand,Saw we old Hildebrand,With twenty horsemen."Then launched they to the blastBent like a reed each mast,Yet we were gaining fast,When the wind failed us:And with a sudden flawCame round the gusty Skaw,So that our foe we sawLaugh as he hailed us."And as to catch the galeRound veered the flapping sail,Death! was the helmsman'shail;Death without quarter!Mid-ships with iron keelStruck we her ribs of steel;Down her black hulk did reelThrough the black water"As with his wings aslant,Sails the fierce cormorant,Seeking some rocky haunt,With his prey laden,So toward the open main,Beating to sea again,Through the wild hurricane,Bore I the maiden."Three weeks we westward bore,And when the storm was o'er,Cloud-like we saw the shoreStretching to lee-ward;There for my lady's bowerBuilt I the lofty tower,Which, to this very hour,Stands looking sea-ward."There lived we many years;Time dried the maiden's tears;She had forgot her fears,She was a mother;Death closed her mild blue eyes,Under that tower she lies;Ne'er shall the sun ariseOn such another!"Still grew my bosom then,Still as a stagnant fen!Hateful to me were men,The sunlight hateful!In the vast forest here,Clad in my warlike gear,Fell I upon my spear,O, death was grateful!"Thus, seamed with many scars,Bursting these prison bars,Up to its native starsMy soul ascended!There from the flowing bowlDeep drinks the warrior's soul,Skoal!to the Northland!Skoal!"[A]—Thus the tale ended.

Then, from those cavernous eyesPale flashes seemed to rise,As when the Northern skiesGleam in December;And, like the water's flowUnder December's snow,Came a dull voice of woeFrom the heart's chamber.

"I was a Viking old!My deeds, though manifold,No Skald in song has told,No Saga taught thee!Take heed, that in thy verseThou dost the tale rehearse,Else dread a dead man's curse!For this I sought thee.

"Far in the Northern Land,By the wild Baltic's strand,I, with my childish hand,Tamed the ger-falcon;And, with my skates fast-bound,Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,That the poor whimpering houndTrembled to walk on.

"Oft to his frozen lairTracked I the grisly bear,While from my path the hareFled like a shadow;Oft through the forest darkFollowed the were-wolf's barkUntil the soaring larkSang from the meadow.

"But when I older grew,Joining a corsair's crew,O'er the dark sea I flewWith the marauders.Wild was the life we led;Many the souls that sped,Many the hearts that bled,By our stern orders.

"Many a wassail-boutWore the long Winter out;Often our midnight shoutSet the cocks crowing,As we the Berserk's taleMeasured in cups of ale,Draining the oaken pail,Filled to o'erflowing.

"Once as I told in gleeTales of the stormy sea,Soft eyes did gaze on me,Burning yet tender;And as the white stars shineOn the dark Norway pine,On that dark heart of mineFell their soft splendor.

"I wooed the blue-eyed maid;Yielding, yet half afraid,And in the forest's shadeOur vows were plighted.Under its loosened vestFluttered her little breast,Like birds within their nestBy the hawk frighted.

"Bright in her father's hallShields gleamed upon the wall,Loud sang the minstrels all,Chaunting his glory;When of old HildebrandI asked his daughter's hand,Mute did the minstrels standTo hear my story,

"While the brown ale he quaffed,Loud then the champion laughed,And as the wind-gusts waftThe sea-foam brightly,So the loud laugh of scorn,Out of those lips unshorn,From the deep drinking-hornBlew the foam lightly.

"She was a Prince's child,I but a Viking wild,And though she blushed and smiled,I was discarded!Should not the dove so whiteFollow the sea-mew's flight,Why did they leave that nightHer nest unguarded?

"Scarce had I put to sea,Bearing the maid with me,—Fairest of all was sheAmong the Norsemen!—When on the white sea-strand,Waving his armed hand,Saw we old Hildebrand,With twenty horsemen.

"Then launched they to the blastBent like a reed each mast,Yet we were gaining fast,When the wind failed us:And with a sudden flawCame round the gusty Skaw,So that our foe we sawLaugh as he hailed us.

"And as to catch the galeRound veered the flapping sail,Death! was the helmsman'shail;Death without quarter!Mid-ships with iron keelStruck we her ribs of steel;Down her black hulk did reelThrough the black water

"As with his wings aslant,Sails the fierce cormorant,Seeking some rocky haunt,With his prey laden,So toward the open main,Beating to sea again,Through the wild hurricane,Bore I the maiden.

"Three weeks we westward bore,And when the storm was o'er,Cloud-like we saw the shoreStretching to lee-ward;There for my lady's bowerBuilt I the lofty tower,Which, to this very hour,Stands looking sea-ward.

"There lived we many years;Time dried the maiden's tears;She had forgot her fears,She was a mother;Death closed her mild blue eyes,Under that tower she lies;Ne'er shall the sun ariseOn such another!

"Still grew my bosom then,Still as a stagnant fen!Hateful to me were men,The sunlight hateful!In the vast forest here,Clad in my warlike gear,Fell I upon my spear,O, death was grateful!

"Thus, seamed with many scars,Bursting these prison bars,Up to its native starsMy soul ascended!There from the flowing bowlDeep drinks the warrior's soul,Skoal!to the Northland!Skoal!"[A]—Thus the tale ended.

[A]In Scandinavia this is the customary salutation when drinking a health. I have slightly changed theorthographyof the word, in order to preserve the correct pronunciation.

It was the schooner Hesperus,That sailed the wintry sea;And the skipper had taken his little daughterTo bear him company.Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,Her cheeks like the dawn of day,And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,That ope in the month of May.The skipper he stood beside the helmWith his pipe in his mouth,And watched how the veering flaw did blowThe smoke now West, now South.Then up and spake an old Sailor,Had sailed the Spanish Main,"I pray thee, put into yonder port,For I fear a hurricane."Last night, the moon had a golden ring,And to-night no moon we see!"The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipeAnd a scornful laugh laughed he.Colder and louder blew the wind,A gale from the Northeast;The snow fell hissing in the brine,And the billows frothed like yeast.Down came the storm, and smote amain,The vessel in its strength;She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,Then leaped her cable's length."Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,And do not tremble so;For I can weather the roughest gale,That ever wind did blow."He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coatAgainst the stinging blast;He cut a rope from a broken spar,And bound her to the mast."O father! I hear the church-bells ring,O say, what may it be?""'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast,"And he steered for the open sea."O father! I hear the sound of guns,O say, what may it be?""Some ship in distress, that cannot liveIn such an angry sea!""O father! I see a gleaming light,O say, what may it be?"But the father answered never a wordA frozen corpse was he.Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,With his face to the skies,The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snowOn his fixed and glassy eyes.Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayedThat saved she might be;And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,On the Lake of Galilee.And fast through the midnight dark and drear,Through the whistling sleet and snow,Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel sweptTowards the reef of Norman's Woe.And ever the fitful gusts betweenA sound came from the land;It was the sound of the trampling surf,On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.The breakers were right beneath her bows,She drifted a dreary wreck,And a whooping billow swept the crewLike icicles from her deck.She struck where the white and fleecy wavesLooked soft as carded wool,But the cruel rocks, they gored her sideLike the horns of an angry bull.Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,With the masts went by the board;Like a vessel of glass, she strove and sankHo! Ho! the breakers roared!At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,A fisherman stood aghast,To see the form of a maiden fair,Lashed close to a drifting mast.The salt sea was frozen on her breastThe salt tears in her eyes;And he saw her hair, like the brown sea weedOn the billows fall and rise.Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,In the midnight and the snow!Christ save us all from a death like thisOn the reef of Norman's Woe!

It was the schooner Hesperus,That sailed the wintry sea;And the skipper had taken his little daughterTo bear him company.

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,Her cheeks like the dawn of day,And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,That ope in the month of May.

The skipper he stood beside the helmWith his pipe in his mouth,And watched how the veering flaw did blowThe smoke now West, now South.

Then up and spake an old Sailor,Had sailed the Spanish Main,"I pray thee, put into yonder port,For I fear a hurricane.

"Last night, the moon had a golden ring,And to-night no moon we see!"The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipeAnd a scornful laugh laughed he.

Colder and louder blew the wind,A gale from the Northeast;The snow fell hissing in the brine,And the billows frothed like yeast.

Down came the storm, and smote amain,The vessel in its strength;She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,Then leaped her cable's length.

"Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,And do not tremble so;For I can weather the roughest gale,That ever wind did blow."

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coatAgainst the stinging blast;He cut a rope from a broken spar,And bound her to the mast.

"O father! I hear the church-bells ring,O say, what may it be?""'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast,"And he steered for the open sea.

"O father! I hear the sound of guns,O say, what may it be?""Some ship in distress, that cannot liveIn such an angry sea!"

"O father! I see a gleaming light,O say, what may it be?"But the father answered never a wordA frozen corpse was he.

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,With his face to the skies,The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snowOn his fixed and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayedThat saved she might be;And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,On the Lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear,Through the whistling sleet and snow,Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel sweptTowards the reef of Norman's Woe.

And ever the fitful gusts betweenA sound came from the land;It was the sound of the trampling surf,On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her bows,She drifted a dreary wreck,And a whooping billow swept the crewLike icicles from her deck.

She struck where the white and fleecy wavesLooked soft as carded wool,But the cruel rocks, they gored her sideLike the horns of an angry bull.

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,With the masts went by the board;Like a vessel of glass, she strove and sankHo! Ho! the breakers roared!

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,A fisherman stood aghast,To see the form of a maiden fair,Lashed close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her breastThe salt tears in her eyes;And he saw her hair, like the brown sea weedOn the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,In the midnight and the snow!Christ save us all from a death like thisOn the reef of Norman's Woe!

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND.

[The tradition, upon which this ballad is founded, and the "shards of the Luck of Edenhall," still exist in England. The goblet is in the possession of Sir Christopher Musgrave, Bart., of Eden Hall, Cumberland; and is not so entirely shattered, as the ballad leaves it.]

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