The Belfry of Bruges and Other Poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - HTML preview
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The Belfry of Bruges and Other Poems
In the ancient town of Bruges, In the quaint old Flemish city,
As the evening shades descended, Low and loud and sweetly blended, Low at times and loud at times, And changing like a poet's rhymes, Rang the beautiful wild chimes From the Belfry in the market
Of the ancient town of Bruges.
Then, with deep sonorous clangor Calmly answering their sweet anger, When the wrangling bells had ended, Slowly struck the clock eleven, And, from out the silent heaven, Silence on the town descended. Silence, silence everywhere,
On the earth and in the air,
Save that footsteps here and there Of some burgher home returning, By the street lamps faintly burning, For a moment woke the echoes Of the ancient town of Bruges.
But amid my broken slumbers Still I heard those magic numbers, As they loud proclaimed the flight And stolen marches of the night; Till their chimes in sweet collision Mingled with each wandering vision, Mingled with the fortune-telling Gypsy-bands of dreams and fancies, Which amid the waste expanses Of the silent land of trances
Have their solitary dwelling;
All else seemed asleep in Bruges, In the quaint old Flemish city.
And I thought how like these chimes Are the poet's airy rhymes,
All his rhymes and roundelays, His conceits, and songs, and ditties, From the belfry of his brain,
Scattered downward, though in vain, On the roofs and stones of cities! For by night the drowsy ear
Under its curtains cannot hear, And by day men go their ways, Hearing the music as they pass, But deeming it no more, alas! Than the hollow sound of brass.
Yet perchance a sleepless wight,
Lodging at some humble inn
In the narrow lanes of life,
When the dusk and hush of night
Shut out the incessant din
Of daylight and its toil and strife,
May listen with a calm delight
To the poet's melodies,
Till he hears, or dreams he hears,
Intermingled with the song,
Thoughts that he has cherished long; Hears amid the chime and singing The bells of his own village ringing, And wakes, and finds his slumberous eyes Wet with most delicious tears.
Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Ble, Listening with a wild delight
To the chimes that, through the night Bang their changes from the Belfry Of that quaint old Flemish city.
As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood, And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of widowhood. Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and vapors gray, Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the landscape lay.At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, here and there, Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascending, vanished, ghost-like, into air. Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning hour, But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient tower. From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swallows wild and high; And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more distant than the sky. Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the olden times, With their strange, unearthly changes rang the melancholy chimes, Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sing in the choir; And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a friar. Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain; They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again; All the Foresters of Flanders,--mighty Baldwin Bras de Fer, Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy Philip, Guy de Dampierre. I beheld the pageants splendid that adorned those days of old; Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who bore the Fleece of Gold Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden argosies; Ministers from twenty nations; more than royal pomp and ease. I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground; I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk and hound; And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept with the queen, And the armed guard around them, and the sword unsheathed between. I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold, Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold; Saw the light at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving west, Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon's nest. And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote; And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin's throat;
Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dike of sand, "I am Roland! I am Roland! there is victory in the land!" Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city's roar Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once more.Hours had passed away like minutes; and, before I was aware, Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined square. A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE
This is the place. Stand still, my steed, Let me review the scene,
And summon from the shadowy Past The forms that once have been.
The Past and Present here unite Beneath Time's flowing tide,
Like footprints hidden by a brook, But seen on either side.
Here runs the highway to the town;
There the green lane descends,
Through which I walked to church with thee, O gentlest of my friends!
The shadow of the linden-trees
Lay moving on the grass;
Between them and the moving boughs, A shadow, thou didst pass.
And thy heart as pure as they: One of God's holy messengers
Did walk with me that day.
I saw the branches of the trees Bend down thy touch to meet,
The clover-blossoms in the grass Rise up to kiss thy feet,
"Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, Of earth and folly born!"
Solemnly sang the village choir On that sweet Sabbath morn.
And ever and anon, the wind,
Sweet-scented with the hay,
Turned o'er the hymn-book's fluttering leaves
That on the window lay.
Long was the good man's sermon, Yet it seemed not so to me;
For he spake of Ruth the beautiful, And still I thought of thee.
Long was the prayer he uttered, Yet it seemed not so to me;
For in my heart I prayed with him, And still I thought of thee.
But now, alas! the place seems changed; Thou art no longer here:
Part of the sunshine of the scene With thee did disappear.
Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart, Like pine-trees dark and high,
Subdue the light of noon, and breathe A low and ceaseless sigh;
This memory brightens o'er the past, As when the sun, concealed
Behind some cloud that near us hangs Shines on a distant field.
This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;
But front their silent pipes no anthem pealing Startles the villages with strange alarms.
Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, When the death-angel touches those swift keys
What loud lament and dismal Miserere Will mingle with their awful symphonies
I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, The cries of agony, the endless groan,
Which, through the ages that have gone before us, In long reverberations reach our own.
On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song,
And loud, amid the universal clamor,
O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.
I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din,
And Aztec priests upon their teocallis
Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin;
The tumult of each sacked and burning village; The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns;
The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage; The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;
The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, The rattling musketry, the clashing blade;
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
The diapason of the cannonade.
Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, With such accursed instruments as these,
Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, And jarrest the celestial harmonies?
Were half the power, that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth, bestowed on camps and courts,
Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals or forts:
The warrior's name would be a name abhorred! And every nation, that should lift again
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain!
Down the dark future, through long generations, The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease;
And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!"
Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair, That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air! Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and dismal lanes, Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude poetic strains.From remote and sunless suburbs came they to the friendly guild, Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the swallows build. As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme, And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil's chime; Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom. Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft, Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laughed. But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor, And a garland in the window, and his face above the door; Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman's song, As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great beard white and long. And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care, Quaffing ale from pewter tankard; in the master's antique chair. Vanished is the ancient splendor, and before my dreamy eye Wave these mingled shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry. Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's regard; But thy painter, Albrecht Durer, and Hans Sachs thy cobbler-bard. Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away, As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought his careless lay: Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of the soil, The nobility of labor,--the long pedigree of toil.
THE NORMAN BARON
Dans les moments de la vie ou la reflexion devient plus calme
et plus profonde, ou l'interet et l'avarice parlent moins haut
que la raison, dans les instants de chagrin domestique, de
maladie, et de peril de mort, les nobles se repentirent de
posseder des serfs, comme d'une chose peu agreable a Dieu, qui
avait cree tous les hommes a son image.--THIERRY, Conquete de
In this fight was Death the gainer, Spite of vassal and retainer,
And the lands his sires had plundered,
By his bed a monk was seated, Who in humble voice repeated Many a prayer and pater-noster,From the missal on his knee;
And, amid the tempest pealing, Sounds of bells came faintly stealing, Bells, that from the neighboring klosterRang for the Nativity.
In the hall, the serf and vassal
Held, that night their Christmas wassail; Many a carol, old and saintly,
And so loud these Saxon gleemen Sang to slaves the songs of freemen, That the storm was heard but faintly,Knocking at the castle-gates.
Till at length the lays they chanted Reached the chamber terror-haunted, Where the monk, with accents holy,Whispered at the baron's ear.
Tears upon his eyelids glistened, As he paused awhile and listened, And the dying baron slowlyTurned his weary head to hear.
"Wassail for the kingly stranger Born and cradled in a manger! King, like David, priest, like Aaron,Christ is born to set us free!"
And the lightning showed the sainted Figures on the casement painted, And exclaimed the shuddering baron,
In that hour of deep contrition
He beheld, with clearer vision,
Through all outward show and fashion,
All the pomp of earth had vanished, Falsehood and deceit were banished, Reason spake more loud than passion,And the truth wore no disguise.
Every vassal of his banner,
Every serf born to his manor,
All those wronged and wretched creatures,
And, as on the sacred missal He recorded their dismissal, Death relaxed his iron features,And the monk replied, "Amen!"
Many centuries have been numbered Since in death the baron slumbered By the convent's sculptured portal,Mingling with the common dust:
But the good deed, through the ages Living in historic pages,
Brighter grows and gleams immortal,
How beautiful is the rain! After the dust and heat, In the broad and fiery street, In the narrow lane,
How beautiful is the rain!
How it clatters along the roofs,
Like the tramp of hoofs
How it gushes and struggles out From the throat of the overflowing spout!
Across the window-pane It pours and pours;
And swift and wide,
With a muddy tide,
Like a river down the gutter roars The rain, the welcome rain!
The sick man from his chamber looks At the twisted brooks;
He can feel the cool
Breath of each little pool;
His fevered brain
Grows calm again,
And he breathes a blessing on the rain.
From the neighboring school Come the boys,
With more than their wonted noise And commotion;
And down the wet streets
Sail their mimic fleets,
Till the treacherous pool
Ingulfs them in its whirling
And turbulent ocean.
In the country, on every side,
Where far and wide,
Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, Stretches the plain,
To the dry grass and the drier grain How welcome is the rain!
In the furrowed land
The toilsome and patient oxen stand; Lifting the yoke encumbered head, With their dilated nostrils spread, They silently inhale
The clover-scented gale,
And the vapors that arise
From the well-watered and smoking soil. For this rest in the furrow after toil Their large and lustrous eyes
Seem to thank the Lord,
More than man's spoken word.
Near at hand,
From under the sheltering trees, The farmer sees
His pastures, and his fields of grain, As they bend their tops
To the numberless beating drops Of the incessant rain.
He counts it as no sin
That he sees therein
Only his own thrift and gain.
These, and far more than these,
The Poet sees!
He can behold
Walking the fenceless fields of air; And from each ample fold
Of the clouds about him rolled
The showery rain,
As the farmer scatters his grain.
He can behold
That have not yet been wholly told,-- Have not been wholly sung nor said. For his thought, that never stops,
Follows the water-drops
Down to the graves of the dead,
Down through chasms and gulfs profound, To the dreary fountain-head
Of lakes and rivers under ground;
And sees them, when the rain is done, On the bridge of colors seven
Climbing up once more to heaven, Opposite the setting sun.
Thus the Seer,
With vision clear,
Sees forms appear and disappear,
In the perpetual round of strange,
From birth to death, from death to birth, From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth; Till glimpses more sublime
Of things, unseen before,
Unto his wondering eyes reveal
The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel Turning forevermore
In the rapid and rushing river of Time.
Dear child! how radiant on thy mother's knee, With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles, Thou gazest at the painted tiles,
Whose figures grace,
With many a grotesque form and face. The ancient chimney of thy nursery!
The lady with the gay macaw,
The dancing girl, the grave bashaw
With bearded lip and chin;
And, leaning idly o'er his gate,
Beneath the imperial fan of state,
The Chinese mandarin.
With what a look of proud command
Thou shakest in thy little hand
The coral rattle with its silver bells,
Making a merry tune!
Thousands of years in Indian seas
That coral grew, by slow degrees,
Until some deadly and wild monsoon Dashed it on Coromandel's sand!
Those silver bells
Reposed of yore,
As shapeless ore,
Far down in the deep-sunken wells
Of darksome mines,
In some obscure and sunless place,
Beneath huge Chimborazo's base,
Or Potosi's o'erhanging pines
And thus for thee, O little child,
Through many a danger and escape, The tall ships passed the stormy cape; For thee in foreign lands remote,
Beneath a burning, tropic clime,
The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat, Himself as swift and wild,
In falling, clutched the frail arbute,
The fibres of whose shallow root,
Uplifted from the soil, betrayed
The silver veins beneath it laid,
The buried treasures of the miser, Time.
But, lo! thy door is left ajar!
Thou hearest footsteps from afar!
And, at the sound,
Thou turnest round
With quick and questioning eyes,
Like one, who, in a foreign land,
Beholds on every hand
Some source of wonder and surprise! And, restlessly, impatiently,
Thou strivest, strugglest, to be free, The four walls of thy nursery
Are now like prison walls to thee.
No more thy mother's smiles,
No more the painted tiles,
Delight thee, nor the playthings on the floor, That won thy little, beating heart before; Thou strugglest for the open door.
Through these once solitary halls
Thy pattering footstep falls.
The sound of thy merry voice
Makes the old walls
Jubilant, and they rejoice
With the joy of thy young heart,
O'er the light of whose gladness
No shadows of sadness
From the sombre background of memory start.
Once, ah, once, within these walls, One whom memory oft recalls,
The Father of his Country, dwelt. And yonder meadows broad and damp The fires of the besieging camp Encircled with a burning belt.
Up and down these echoing stairs, Heavy with the weight of cares, Sounded his majestic tread;
Yes, within this very room
Sat he in those hours of gloom, Weary both in heart and head.
But what are these grave thoughts to thee? Out, out! into the open air!
Thy only dream is liberty,
Thou carest little how or where.
I see thee eager at thy play,
Now shouting to the apples on the tree, With cheeks as round and red as they; And now among the yellow stalks,
Among the flowering shrubs and plants, As restless as the bee.
Along the garden walks,
The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels I trace; And see at every turn how they efface Whole villages of sand-roofed tents,
That rise like golden domes
Above the cavernous and secret homes Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants. Ah, cruel little Tamerlane,
Who, with thy dreadful reign,
Dost persecute and overwhelm
These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm! What! tired already! with those suppliant looks, And voice more beautiful than a poet's books, Or murmuring sound of water as it flows. Thou comest back to parley with repose; This rustic seat in the old apple-tree,
With its o'erhanging golden canopy
Of leaves illuminate with autumnal hues, And shining with the argent light of dews, Shall for a season be our place of rest. Beneath us, like an oriole's pendent nest, From which the laughing birds have taken wing, By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant swing. Dream-like the waters of the river gleam; A sailless vessel drops adown the stream, And like it, to a sea as wide and deep, Thou driftest gently down the tides of sleep.
O child! O new-born denizen Of life's great city! on thy head The glory of the morn is shed, Like a celestial benison!
Here at the portal thou dost stand, And with thy little hand
Thou openest the mysterious gate Into the future's undiscovered land. I see its valves expand,
As at the touch of Fate!
Into those realms of love and hate, Into that darkness blank and drear, By some prophetic feeling taught,
I launch the bold, adventurous thought, Freighted with hope and fear;
As upon subterranean streams,
In caverns unexplored and dark,
Men sometimes launch a fragile bark, Laden with flickering fire,
And watch its swift-receding beams, Until at length they disappear,
And in the distant dark expire.
By what astrology of fear or hope
Dare I to cast thy horoscope!
Like the new moon thy life appears; A little strip of silver light,
And widening outward into night
The shadowy disk of future years;
And yet upon its outer rim,
A luminous circle, faint and dim,
And scarcely visible to us here,
Rounds and completes the perfect sphere; A prophecy and intimation,
A pale and feeble adumbration,
Of the great world of light, that lies Behind all human destinies.
Ah! if thy fate, with anguish fraught, Should be to wet the dusty soil With the hot tears and sweat of toil,-To struggle with imperious thought, Until the overburdened brain,
Weary with labor, faint with pain, Like a jarred pendulum, retain
Only its motion, not its power,-- Remember, in that perilous hour, When most afflicted and oppressed, From labor there shall come forth rest. And if a more auspicious fate
On thy advancing steps await
Still let it ever be thy pride
To linger by the laborer's side;
With words of sympathy or song
To cheer the dreary march along
Of the great army of the poor,
O'er desert sand, o'er dangerous moor. Nor to thyself the task shall be
Without reward; for thou shalt learn The wisdom early to discern
True beauty in utility;
As great Pythagoras of yore,
Standing beside the blacksmith's door, And hearing the hammers, as they smote The anvils with a different note,
Stole from the varying tones, that hung Vibrant on every iron tongue,
The secret of the sounding wire.
And formed the seven-chorded lyre.
Enough! I will not play the Seer;
I will no longer strive to ope
The mystic volume, where appear The herald Hope, forerunning Fear, And Fear, the pursuivant of Hope. Thy destiny remains untold;
For, like Acestes' shaft of old,
The swift thought kindles as it flies, And burns to ashes in the skies.
I saw, as in a dream sublime,
The balance in the hand of Time. O'er East and West its beam impended; And day, with all its hours of light, Was slowly sinking out of sight,
While, opposite, the scale of night Silently with the stars ascended.
Like the astrologers of eld,
In that bright vision I beheld
Greater and deeper mysteries.
I saw, with its celestial keys,
Its chords of air, its frets of fire,
The Samian's great Aeolian lyre,
Rising through all its sevenfold bars,
From earth unto the fixed stars.
And through the dewy atmosphere,
Not only could I see, but hear,
Its wondrous and harmonious strings, In sweet vibration, sphere by sphere, From Dian's circle light and near,
Onward to vaster and wider rings.
Where, chanting through his beard of snows, Majestic, mournful, Saturn goes,
And down the sunless realms of space Reverberates the thunder of his bass.
Beneath the sky's triumphal arch This music sounded like a march, And with its chorus seemed to be Preluding some great tragedy.
Sirius was rising in the east;
And, slow ascending one by one, The kindling constellations shone. Begirt with many a blazing star,
Stood the great giant Algebar,
Orion, hunter of the beast!
His sword hung gleaming by his side, And, on his arm, the lion's hide
Scattered across the midnight air The golden radiance of its hair.
The moon was pallid, but not faint; And beautiful as some fair saint, Serenely moving on her way
In hours of trial and dismay.
As if she heard the voice of God, Unharmed with naked feet she trod Upon the hot and burning stars, As on the glowing coals and bars, That were to prove her strength, and try Her holiness and her purity.
Thus moving on, with silent pace, And triumph in her sweet, pale face, She reached the station of Orion. Aghast he stood in strange alarm! And suddenly from his outstretched arm Down fell the red skin of the lion Into the river at his feet.
His mighty club no longer beat
The forehead of the bull; but he
Reeled as of yore beside the sea, When, blinded by Oenopion,
He sought the blacksmith at his forge, And, climbing up the mountain gorge, Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun.
Then, through the silence overhead, An angel with a trumpet said,
The reign of violence is o'er!"
And, like an instrument that flings Its music on another's strings,
The trumpet of the angel cast
Upon the heavenly lyre its blast,
And on from sphere to sphere the words Re-echoed down the burning chords,-- "Forevermore, forevermore,
The reign of violence is o'er!"
I stood on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour,
And the moon rose o'er the city, Behind the dark church-tower.
I saw her bright reflection In the waters under me,
Like a golden goblet falling And sinking into the sea.
And far in the hazy distance Of that lovely night in June,
The blaze of the flaming furnace Gleamed redder than the moon.
Among the long, black rafters
The wavering shadows lay,
And the current that came from the ocean Seemed to lift and bear them away; As, sweeping and eddying through them, Rose the belated tide,
And, streaming into the moonlight, The seaweed floated wide.
And like those waters rushing Among the wooden piers,
A flood of thoughts came o'er me That filled my eyes with tears.
How often, oh, how often,
In the days that had gone by,
I had stood on that bridge at midnight And gazed on that wave and sky!
I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom
O'er the ocean wild and wide!
For my heart was hot and restless, And my life was full of care,
And the burden laid upon me Seemed greater than I could bear.
But now it has fallen from me, It is buried in the sea;
And only the sorrow of others Throws its shadow over me.
Yet whenever I cross the river On its bridge with wooden piers,
Like the odor of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years.
And I think how many thousands Of care-encumbered men,
Each bearing his burden of sorrow, Have crossed the bridge since then.
I see the long procession
Still passing to and fro,
The young heart hot and restless, And the old subdued and slow!
The moon and its broken reflection And its shadows shall appear,
As the symbol of love in heaven, And its wavering image here.
Gloomy and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty Omahas;
Gloomy and dark as the driving cloud, whose name thou hast taken! Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through the city's
Narrow and populous streets, as once by the margin of rivers
Stalked those birds unknown, that have left us only their footprints. What, in a few short years, will remain of thy race but the footprints?
How canst thou walk these streets, who hast trod the green turf of the prairies! How canst thou breathe this air, who hast breathed the sweet air of the mountains! Ah! 't is in vain that with lordly looks of disdain thou dost challenge Looks of disdain in return,, and question these walls and these pavements, Claiming the soil for thy hunting-grounds, while down-trodden millions Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its caverns that they, too, Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim its division!
Back, then, back to thy woods in the regions west of the Wabash!
There as a monarch thou reignest. In autumn the leaves of the maple Pave the floors of thy palace-halls with gold, and in summer
Pine-trees waft through its chambers the odorous breath of their branches. There thou art strong and great, a hero, a tamer of horses!
There thou chasest the stately stag on the banks of the Elkhorn,
Or by the roar of the Running-Water, or where the Omaha
Calls thee, and leaps through the wild ravine like a brave of the Blackfeet!
Hark! what murmurs arise from the heart of those mountainous deserts? Is it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the mighty Behemoth,
Who, unharmed, on his tusks once caught the bolts of the thunder, And now lurks in his lair to destroy the race of the red man?
Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the Crows and the Foxes, Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the tread of Behemoth,
Lo! the big thunder-canoe, that steadily breasts the Missouri's
Merciless current! and yonder, afar on the prairies, the camp-fires
Gleam through the night; and the cloud of dust in the gray of the daybreak Marks not the buffalo's track, nor the Mandan's dexterous horse-race; It is a caravan, whitening the desert where dwell the Camanches!
Ha! how the breath of these Saxons and Celts, like the blast of the east-wind, Drifts evermore to the west the scanty smokes of thy wigwams!
The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time.
For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor; And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.
The day is ending,
The night is descending; The marsh is frozen, The river dead.
Through clouds like ashes The red sun flashes
On village windows
That glimmer red.
The snow recommences; The buried fences
Mark no longer
The road o'er the plain;
While through the meadows, Like fearful shadows,
A funeral train.
The bell is pealing, And every feeling Within me responds To the dismal knell;
Shadows are trailing, My heart is bewailing And tolling within Like a funeral bell. TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK
Welcome, my old friend,
Welcome to a foreign fireside, While the sullen gales of autumn Shake the windows.
The ungrateful world
Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee, Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, First I met thee.
There are marks of age,
There are thumb-marks on thy margin, Made by hands that clasped thee rudely, At the alehouse.
Soiled and dull thou art;
Yellow are thy time-worn pages, As the russet, rain-molested Leaves of autumn.
Thou art stained with wine Scattered from hilarious goblets, As the leaves with the libations Of Olympus.
Yet dost thou recall
Days departed, half-forgotten, When in dreamy youth I wandered By the Baltic,--
When I paused to hear
The old ballad of King Christian Shouted from suburban taverns In the twilight.
Thou recallest bards,
Who in solitary chambers,
And with hearts by passion wasted, Wrote thy pages.
Thou recallest homes
Where thy songs of love and friendship Made the gloomy Northern winter Bright as summer.
Once some ancient Scald,
In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, Chanted staves of these old ballads To the Vikings.
Once in Elsinore,
At the court of old King Hamlet Yorick and his boon companions Sang these ditties.
Once Prince Frederick's Guard Sang them in their smoky barracks;-- Suddenly the English cannon
Joined the chorus!
Peasants in the field,
Sailors on the roaring ocean,
Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics, All have sung them.
Thou hast been their friend;
They, alas! have left thee friendless! Yet at least by one warm fireside Art thou welcome.
And, as swallows build
In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys, So thy twittering songs shall nestle In my bosom,--
Quiet, close, and warm,
Sheltered from all molestation, And recalling by their voices Youth and travel.
Vogelweid the Minnesinger,
When he left this world of ours,
Laid his body in the cloister,
Under Wurtzburg's minster towers.
And he gave the monks his treasures, Gave them all with this behest:
They should feed the birds at noontide Daily on his place of rest;
Saying, "From these wandering minstrels I have learned the art of song;
Let me now repay the lessons
They have taught so well and long."
Thus the bard of love departed; And, fulfilling his desire,
On his tomb the birds were feasted By the children of the choir.
Day by day, o'er tower and turret, In foul weather and in fair,
Day by day, in vaster numbers, Flocked the poets of the air.
On the tree whose heavy branches Overshadowed all the place,
On the pavement, on the tombstone, On the poet's sculptured face,
On the cross-bars of each window, On the lintel of each door,
They renewed the War of Wartburg, Which the bard had fought before.
There they sang their merry carols, Sang their lauds on every side;
And the name their voices uttered Was the name of Vogelweid.
Murmured, "Why this waste of food? Be it changed to loaves henceforward
For our tasting brotherhood."
Then in vain o'er tower and turret, From the walls and woodland nests,
When the minster bells rang noontide, Gathered the unwelcome guests.
Then in vain, with cries discordant, Clamorous round the Gothic spire,
Screamed the feathered Minnesingers For the children of the choir.
But around the vast cathedral, By sweet echoes multiplied,
Still the birds repeat the legend, And the name of Vogelweid.
Come, old friend! sit down and listen! From the pitcher, placed between us,
How the waters laugh and glisten In the head of old Silenus!
Old Silenus, bloated, drunken, Led by his inebriate Satyrs;
On his breast his head is sunken, Vacantly he leers and chatters.
Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow; Ivy crowns that brow supernal
As the forehead of Apollo,
And possessing youth eternal.
Round about him, fair Bacchantes, Bearing cymbals, flutes, and thyrses,
Wild from Naxian groves, or Zante's Vineyards, sing delirious verses.
Thus he won, through all the nations, Bloodless victories, and the farmer
Bore, as trophies and oblations, Vines for banners, ploughs for armor.
Judged by no o'erzealous rigor, Much this mystic throng expresses:
Bacchus was the type of vigor, And Silenus of excesses.
These are ancient ethnic revels, Of a faith long since forsaken;
Now the Satyrs, changed to devils, Frighten mortals wine-o'ertaken.
Now to rivulets from the mountains Point the rods of fortune-tellers;
Youth perpetual dwells in fountains,-- Not in flasks, and casks, and cellars.
Claudius, though he sang of flagons And huge tankards filled with Rhenish,
From that fiery blood of dragons Never would his own replenish.
Even Redi, though he chaunted Bacchus in the Tuscan valleys,
Never drank the wine he vaunted In his dithyrambic sallies.
Then with water fill the pitcher Wreathed about with classic fables;
Ne'er Falernian threw a richer Light upon Lucullus' tables.
Come, old friend, sit down and listen As it passes thus between us,
How its wavelets laugh and glisten In the head of old Silenus!
L'eternite est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit sans cesse ces deux mots seulement dans le silence des tombeaux: "Toujours! jamais! Jamais! toujours!"--JACQUES BRIDAINE.
Somewhat back from the village street Stands the old-fashioned country-seat. Across its antique portico
Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw; And from its station in the hall
An ancient timepiece says to all,--
Half-way up the stairs it stands, And points and beckons with its hands From its case of massive oak,
Like a monk, who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs, alas! With sorrowful voice to all who pass,-By day its voice is low and light;
But in the silent dead of night,
Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, It echoes along the vacant hall,
Along the ceiling, along the floor,
And seems to say, at each chamber-door,--
Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Through days of death and days of birth, Through every swift vicissitude
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, And as if, like God, it all things saw, It calmly repeats those words of awe,--
In that mansion used to be
His great fires up the chimney roared; The stranger feasted at his board;
But, like the skeleton at the feast,
That warning timepiece never ceased,--
There groups of merry children played, There youths and maidens dreaming strayed; O precious hours! O golden prime,
And affluence of love and time!
Even as a Miser counts his gold,
Those hours the ancient timepiece told,--
From that chamber, clothed in white, The bride came forth on her wedding night; There, in that silent room below,
The dead lay in his shroud of snow; And in the hush that followed the prayer, Was heard the old clock on the stair,-All are scattered now and fled, Some are married, some are dead; And when I ask, with throbs of pain. "Ah! when shall they all meet again?" As in the days long since gone by, The ancient timepiece makes reply,--
Never here, forever there,
Where all parting, pain, and care, And death, and time shall disappear,-- Forever there, but never here!
The horologe of Eternity
Sayeth this incessantly,--
I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.SONNETS MEZZO CAMMIN
Half of my life is gone, and I have let The years slip from me and have not fulfilled The aspiration of my youth, to build
Some tower of song with lofty parapet.
Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor the fret
Of restless passions chat would not be stilled, But sorrow, and a care that almost killed,
Kept me from what I may accomplish yet;
Though, half way up the hill, I see the Past
Lying beneath me with its sounds and sights,-A city in the twilight dim and vast,
With smoking roofs, soft bells, and gleaming lights.-- And hear above me on the autumnal blast
The cataract of Death far thundering from the heights.
Lo! in the painted oriel of the West,
Whose panes the sunken sun incarnadines, Like a fair lady at her casement, shines The evening star, the star of love and rest!
And then anon she doth herself divest
Of all her radiant garments, and reclines Behind the sombre screen of yonder pines, With slumber and soft dreams of love oppressed.
O my beloved, my sweet Hesperus!
My morning and my evening star of love! My best and gentlest lady! even thus,
As that fair planet in the sky above,
Dost thou retire unto thy rest at night,
And from thy darkened window fades the light.
Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain, With banners, by great gales incessant fanned, Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand, And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain!
Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne, Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand
Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land, Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain!
Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended So long beneath the heaven's o'er-hanging eaves; Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended;
Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves; And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid, Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves!DANTE
Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom, With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes, Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise, Like Farinata from his fiery tomb.
Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom; Yet in thy heart what human sympathies, What soft compassion glows, as in the skies The tender stars their clouded lamps relume!
Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks, By Fra Hilario in his diocese,
As up the convent-walls, in golden streaks,
The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease; And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks, Thy voice along the cloister whispers, "Peace!"CURFEW I.
Solemnly, mournfully, Dealing its dole,
The Curfew Bell
Is beginning to toll.
Cover the embers,
And put out the light;
Toil comes with the morning, And rest with the night.
Dark grow the windows, And quenched is the fire;
Sound fades into silence,-- All footsteps retire.
No voice in the chambers, No sound in the hall!
Sleep and oblivion
Reign over all!
And closed, like the day; And the hand that has written it
Lays it away.
Dim grow its fancies; Forgotten they lie;
Like coals in the ashes, They darken and die.
Song sinks into silence, The story is told,
The windows are darkened, The hearth-stone is cold.
Darker and darker
The black shadows fall;
Sleep and oblivion
Reign over all.