Full text of "Poems"

See other formats

University of California • Berkeley

THE LIBRARY

THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA

BEQUEST

OF
ANITA D. S. BLAKE

POEMS,

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.

A NEW EDITION.

BOSTON:
TICKNOR, REED, AND FIELDS,

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by

H. W. LONGFELLOW,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.

CAMBRIDGE:

STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY

METCALF AND COMPANY,

PRINTERS TO THE UNIVERSITY.

CONTENTS OF VOL. I.

VOICES OF THE NIGHT.

PAGB

PRELUDE . * . / . . . . . ix
VOICES OF THE NIGHT.

HYMN TO THE NIGHT .. -, :.,. ' • .. • • »,- •,..-. 3

A PSALM OF LIFE ...... ...>.,.' '.*. • \;v.. . 5

THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS " v '. . . 8

THE LIGHT OF STARS . . -. , ;; «... • • 11

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS . "\., '. ::v '. ' ;. ' .. ' . . 14

FLOWERS . . . , ' . -I./ '.'.«• - 17

THE BELEAGUERED CITY . , . „; ...•' - r,-/ . . 22

MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR . . 26

EARLIER POEMS.

AN APRIL DAY 33

AUTUMN 36

WOODS IN WINTER . . 39

IV CONTENTS.

HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM . 42

SUNRISE ON THE HILLS . .' ' . •' . . < . . 45

THE SPIRIT OF POETRY > , ;'^ ... 48

BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK . . ..-" ". 52

TRANSLATIONS.

COPLAS DE MANRIQUE ..... ,' ,, Yv '• 59

THE GOOD SHEPHERD . . . . .. ;. 89

TO-MORROW . . ,<> , -;'~ v; " ,. =/ ; •..'•' 91

THE NATIVE LAND 93

THE IMAGE OF GOD . -V -.--., : -"» . ' •- * . 95

THE BROOK . y : . ^ : ' '•* / .'& --i ii ' • • 97

THE CELESTIAL PILOT 99

THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE 102

BEATRICE.. , ...'••»-.•:. -V''K':i !- ." . 105

SPRING .!v .>--.> v, •» " ;• . . 109

THE CHILD ASLEEP . . . . . . Ill

THE GRAVE . . I 113

KING CHRISTIAN . . . . . . 116

THE HAPPIEST LAND 119

THE WAVE . . . . -., -'V . 122

THE DEAD . . . . "V v . . 123

THE BIRD AND THE SHIP 125

CONTENTS. V

WHITHER? 128

BEWARE! . 130

SONG OF THE BELL ..'.... 132

THE CASTLE BY THE SEA . . . . 134

THE BLACK KNIGHT . . . . . .137

SONG OF THE SILENT LAND .... 141

L'ENVOI .; 143

BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS.

PREFACE 147

BALLADS.

THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR ..... 169

THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS . . . . 182

THE LUCK OF EDENHALL . . . . 188

THE ELECTED KNIGHT 193

THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER 199.

MISCELLANEOUS.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH ..... 239

ENDYMION 243

THE Two LOCKS OF HAIR 246

IT is NOT ALWAYS MAY .... 249

VI CONTENTS.

THE RAINY DAY 251

GOD'S-ACRE .... ; ,. • V. . . 253

To THE RIVER CHARLES ." .'-;' .^ . . 255

BLIND BARTIMEUS . N, V '..-r •* . . 258

THE GOBLET OF LIFE . ._ ,•'"•>-> '--* ^ •• ' ,. . 260

MAIDENHOOD , .. • • \, • ; • '••*!•*' ' .. • 265

EXCELSIOR . . .%>• . -. • - '. •. '. 269

POEMS ON SLAVERY.

To WILLIAM E. CHANNING 275

THE SLAVE'S DREAM . .. .;- - . ' . . 277

THE GOOD PART . /V^v'^v ,;T. ..,.-:,, :;^. . 281

THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP . . . 284

THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT . y».; * . 287

THE WITNESSES •„";,.' 'i'- ''., '•' ';>-... . 289

THE QUADROON GIRL - ',. . V - * v . . 292

THE WARNING . 296

THE SPANISH STUDENT.

THE SPANISH STUDENT 301

NOTES 469

VOICES OF THE NIGHT

1840.

PRELUDE.

PLEASANT it was, when woods were green,
And winds were soft and low,

To lie amid some sylvan scene,

Where, the long drooping boughs between,

Shadows dark and sunlight sheen
Alternate come and go ;

Or where the denser grove receives

No sunlight from above,
But the dark foliage interweaves
In one unbroken roof of leaves,
Underneath whose sloping eaves

The shadows hardly move.

PRELUDE.

Beneath some patriarchal tree

I lay upon the ground ;
His hoary arms uplifted he,
And all the broad leaves over me
Clapped their little hands in glee,

With one continuous sound ; —

A slumberous sound, — a sound that brings

The feelings of a dream, —
As of innumerable wings,
As, when a bell no longer swings,
Faint the hollow murmur rings

O'er meadow, lake, and stream.

And dreams of that which cannot die,

Bright visions, came to me,
As lapped in thought I used to lie,
And gaze into the summer sky,
Where the sailing clouds went by,

Like ships upon the sea ;

PRELUDE. XI

Dreams that the soul of youth engage

Ere Fancy has been quelled ;
Old legends of the monkish page,
Traditions of the saint and sage,
Tales that have the rime of age,

And chronicles of Eld.

And, loving still these quaint old themes,

Even in the city's throng
I feel the freshness of the streams,
That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams,
Water the green land of dreams,

The holy land of song.

Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings
The Spring, clothed like a bride,

When nestling buds unfold their wings,

And bishop's-caps have golden rings,

Musing upon many things,
I sought the woodlands wide.

Xll PRELUDE.

The green trees whispered low and mild ;

It was a sound of joy !
They were my playmates when a child,
And rocked me in their arms so wild !
Still they looked at me and smiled,

As if I were a boy ;

And ever whispered, mild and low,
" Come, be a child once more ! "

And waved their long arms to and fro,

And beckoned solemnly and slow ;

O, I could not choose but go
Into the woodlands hoar ;

Into the blithe and breathing air,

Into the solemn wood,
Solemn and silent everywhere !
Nature with folded hands seemed there,
Kneeling at her evening prayer !

Like one in prayer I stood.

PRELUDE. Xlll

Before me rose an avenue

Of tall and sombrous pines ;
Abroad their fan-like branches grew,
And, where the sunshine darted through,
Spread a vapor soft and blue,

In long and sloping lines.

And, falling on my weary brain,

Like a fast-falling shower,
The dreams of youth came back again ;
Low lispings of the summer rain,
Dropping on the ripened grain,

As once upon the flower.

Visions of childhood ! Stay, O stay !

Ye were so sweet and wild !
And distant voices seemed to say,
It cannot be ! They pass away !
Other themes demand thy lay ;

Thou art no more a child !

XIV PRELUDE.

"The land of Song within thee lies,

Watered by living springs ;
The lids of Fancy's sleepless eyes
Are gates unto that Paradise,
Holy thoughts, like stars, arise,
Its clouds are angels' wings.

" Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be,

Not mountains capped with snow,
Nor forests sounding like the sea,
Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly,
Where the woodlands bend to see
The bending heavens below.

" There is a forest where the din

Of iron branches sounds !
A mighty river roars between,
And whosoever looks therein,
Sees the heavens all black with sin, —
Sees not its depths, nor bounds.

PRELUDE. XV

"Athwart the swinging branches cast,

Soft rays of sunshine pour ;
Then comes the fearful wintry blast ;
Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast ;
Pallid lips say, ' It is past !
We can return no more ! '

" Look, then, into thine heart, and write !

Yes, into Life's deep stream !
All forms of sorrow and delight,
All solemn Voices of the Night,
That can soothe thee, or affright, —
Be these henceforth thy theme."

VOICES OF THE NIGHT.

floivia, noiviu vv$,

iwv nokvnorMV fiyoruv,

i ' jUo'As //oAs
em Sopov
vno /«(> alyiwv, vno je

Et RIPIUK5.

HYMN TO THE NIGHT.

I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls !

I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls !

I felt her presence, by its spell of might,

Stoop o'er me from above ;
The calm, majestic presence of the Night,

As of the one I love.

4 VOICES OF THE NIGHT.

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,

The manifold, soft chimes,
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,

Like some old poet's rhymes.

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air

My spirit drank repose ;
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, —

From those deep cisterns flows.

O holy Night ! from thee I learn to bear

What man has borne before !
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,

And they complain no more.

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!

Descend with broad-winged flight,
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,

The best-beloved Night !

A PSALM OF LIFE.

WHAT THE HEART OF THE TOCNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMtST.

TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
"Life is but an empty dream ! "

For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real ! Life is earnest !

And the grave is not its goal ;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"

"Was not spoken of the soul.

VOICES OP THE NIGHT.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way ;
But to act, that each to-morrow

Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle !

Be a hero in the strife !

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant !

Let the dead Past bury its dead !
Act, — act in the living Present !

Heart within, and God o'erhead !

A PSALM OF LIFE.

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,

And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time ;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
"With a heart for any fate ;

Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.

THERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death,

And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,

And the flowers that grow between.

" Shall I have nought that is fair ? " saith he ;

" Have nought but the bearded grain ?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,

I will give them all back again."

THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 9

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
He kissed their drooping leaves ;

It was for the Lord of Paradise
He bound them in his sheaves.

" My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"

The Reaper said, and smiled ;
" Dear tokens of the earth are they,

Where he was once a child.

" They shall all bloom in fields of light,

Transplanted by my care,
And saints, upon their garments white,

These sacred blossoms wear."

And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love ;

She knew she should find them all again
In the fields of light above.

10 VOICES OF THE NIGHT.

O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The Reaper came that day ;

'T was an angel visited the green earth,
And took the flowers away.

THE LIGHT OF STARS.

THE night is come, but not too soon ;

And sinking silently,
All silently, the little moon

Drops down behind the sky.

There is no light in earth or heaven,
But the cold light of stars ;

And the first watch of night is given
To the red planet Mars.

12 VOICES OF THE NIGHT.

Is it the tender star of love ?

The star of love and dreams ?
O no ! from that blue tent above,

A hero's armour gleams.

And earnest thoughts within me rise,

When I behold afar,
Suspended in the evening skies,

The shield of that red star.

0 star of strength ! I see thee stand
And smile upon my pain ;

Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand,
And I am strong again.

Within my breast there is no light,
But the cold light of stars ;

1 give the first watch of the night
To the red planet Mars.

THE LIGHT OF STARS. 13

The star of the unconquered will,

He rises in my breast,
Serene, and resolute, and still,

And calm, and self-possessed.

And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art,
That readest this brief psalm,

As one by one thy hopes depart,
Be resolute and calm.

O fear not in a world like this,
And thou shall know ere long,

Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong.

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

WHEN the hours of Day are numbered,
And the voices of the Night

Wake the better soul, that slumbered,
To a holy, calm delight ;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,

Shadows from the fitful fire-light
Dance upon the parlour wall ;

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. 15

Then the forms of the departed

Enter at the open door ;
The beloved, the true-hearted,

Come to visit me once more ;

He, the young and strong, who cherished

Noble longings for the strife,
By the road-side fell and perished,

Weary with the march of life !

They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,

Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more !

And with them the Being Beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given,

More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.

1(5 VOICES OF THE NIGHT.

With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine,

Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.

And she sits and gazes at me
With those deep and tender eyes,

Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies

Uttered not, yet comprehended,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,

Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.

O, though oft depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,

If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died !

FLOWERS.

SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden,
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,

When he called the flowers, so blue and golden,
Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine.

Stars they are, wherein we read our history,

As astrologers and seers of eld ;
Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery,

Like the burning stars, which they beheld.

18 VOICES OF .THE NIGHT.

Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,
God hath written in those stars above ;

But not less in the bright flowerets under us
Stands the revelation of his love.

Bright and glorious is that revelation,

Written all over this great world of ours ;

Making evident our own creation,

In these stars of earth, — these golden flowers.

And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing,
Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part

Of the self-same, universal being,

Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining,
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,

Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining,
Buds that open only to decay ;

FLOWERS. 19

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,
Flaunting gayly in the golden light ;

Large desires, with most uncertain issues,
Tender wishes, blossoming at night !

These in flowers and men are more than seeming ;

Workings are they of the self-same powers,
Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming,

Seeth in himself and in the flowers.

Everywhere ahout us are they glowing,
Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born ;

Others, their blue eyes with tears overflowing,
Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn ;

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing,
And in Summer's green-emblazoned field,

But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing,
In the centre of his brazen shield ;

20 VOICES OF THE NIGHT.

Not alone in meadows and green alleys,
On the mountain-top, and by the brink

Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys,
Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink ;

Not alone in her vast dome of glory,
Not on graves of bird and beast alone,

But in old cathedrals, high and hoary,
On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone ;

In the cottage of the rudest peasant,

In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers,

Speaking of the Past unto the Present,
Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers ;

In all places, then, and in all seasons,

Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings,

Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,
How akin they are to human things.

FLOWERS. 21

And with childlike, credulous affection
We behold their tender buds expand ;

Emblems of our own great resurrection,
Emblems of the bright and better land.

THE BELEAGUERED CITY.

v I HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale,

Some legend strange and vague,

That a midnight host of spectres pale

Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,

There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.

THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 23

White as a sea-fog, landward bound,

The spectral camp was seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,

The river flowed between.

No other voice nor sound was there,

No drum, nor sentry's pace ;
The mist-like banners clasped the air,

As clouds with clouds embrace.

But, when the old cathedral bell
Proclaimed the morning prayer,

The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarmed air.

Down the broad valley fast and far

The troubled army fled ;
Up rose the glorious morning star,

The ghastly host was dead.

24 VOICES OF THE NIGHT.

I have read, in the marvellous heart of man,
That strange and mystic scroll,

That an army of phantoms vast and wan
Beleaguer the human soul.

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,

In Fancy's misty light,
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam

Portentous through the night.

Upon its midnight battle-ground

The spectral camp is seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,

Flows the River of Life between.

No other voice, nor sound is there,

In the army of the grave ;
No other challenge breaks the air,

But the rushing of Life's wave.

THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 25

And, when the solemn and deep church-bell

Entreats the soul to pray,
The midnight phantoms feel the spell,

The shadows sweep away.

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar

The spectral camp is fled ;
Faith shineth as a morning star,

Our ghastly fears are dead.

MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR.

(YES, the Year is growing old,

And his eye is pale and bleared !
Death, with frosty hand and cold,
Plucks the old man by the beard,
Sorely, — sorely !

The leaves are falling, falling,

Solemnly and slow ;
Caw ! caw ! the rooks are calling,

It is a sound of woe,
A sound of woe !

MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. 27

Through woods and mountain passes
The winds, like anthems, roll ;

They are chanting solemn masses,
Singing ; " Pray for this poor soul,
Pray, — pray ! "

And the hooded clouds, like friars,
Tell their beads in drops of rain,

And patter their doleful prayers ; —
But their prayers are all in vain,
All in vain !

There he stands in the foul weather,

The foolish, fond Old Year,
Crowned with wild flowers and with heather,

Like weak, despised Lear,
A king, — a king !

23 VOICES OF THE NIGHT.

Then comes the summer-like day,
Bids the old man rejoice !

His joy ! his last ! O, the old man gray,
Loveth that ever-soft voice,
Gentle and low.

To the crimson woods he saith, —
To the voice gentle and low

Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath, -
" Pray do not mock me so !
Do not laugh at me ! "

And now the sweet day is dead ;

Cold in his arms it lies ;
No stain from its breath is spread

Over the glassy skies,
No mist or stain !

MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. 29

Then, too, the Old Year dieth,
And the forests utter a moan,

Like the voice of one who crieth
In the wilderness alone,
" Vex not his ghost ! "

Then comes, with an awful roar,

Gathering and sounding on,
The storm- wind from Labrador,

The wind Euroclydon,
The storm-wind !

Howl ! howl ! and from the forest
Sweep the red leaves away !

Would, the sins that thou abhorrest,
O Soul ! could thus decay,
And be swept away !

30 VOICES OF THE NIGHT.

For there shall come a mightier blast,

There shall be a darker day ;
And the stars, from heaven down-cast,
Like red leaves be swept away !
Kyrie, eleyson !
Christe, eleyson !

EARLIER POEMS.

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

AN APRIL DAY.

WHEN the warm sun, that brings
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again,
'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs

The first flower of the plain.

I love the season well,

When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell

The coming-on of storms.
3

34 EARLIER POEMS.

From the earth's loosened mould
The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives ;
Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold,

The drooping tree revives.

The softly-warbled song

Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored wings
Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along

The forest openings.

When the bright sunset fills
The silver woods with light, the green slope throws
Its shadows in the hollows of the hills,

And wide the upland glows.

And, when the eve is born,
In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far,
Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn,

And twinkles many a star.

AN APRIL DAY. 35

Inverted in the tide,

Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw,
And the fair trees look over, side by side,

And see themselves below.

Sweet April ! — many a thought
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed ;
Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought,

Life's golden fruit is shed.

AUTUMN.

WITH what a glory comes and goes the year !
The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers
Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy
Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out ;
And when the silver habit of the clouds
Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with
A sober gladness the old year takes up
His bright inheritance of golden fruits,
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.

AUTUMN. 37,

There is a beautiful spirit breathing now
Its mellow richness on the clustered trees,
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds.
Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,
Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,
Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life
Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned,
And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,
Where autumn, like a faint old man, sits down
By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees
The golden robin moves. The purple finch,
That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,
A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle,
And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud
From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings,
And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke,
Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.

38 EARLIER POEMS.

O what a glory doth this world put on
For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth
Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks
On duties well performed, and days well spent !
For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves
Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings.
He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death
Has lifted up for all, that he shall go
To his long resting-place without a tear.

WOODS IN WINTER.

WHEN winter winds are piercing chill,
And through the hawthorn blows the gale,

With solemn feet I tread the hill,
That overbrows the lonely vale.

O'er the bare upland, and away

Through the long reach of desert woods,

The embracing sunbeams chastely play,
And gladden these deep solitudes.

40 EARLIER POEMS.

Where, twisted round the barren oak.
The summer vine in beauty clung,

And summer winds the stillness broke,
The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs
Pour out the river's gradual tide,

Shrilly the skater's iron rings,
And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas ! how changed from the fair scene,
When birds sang out their mellow lay,

And winds were soft, and woods were green,
And the song ceased not with the day.

But still wild music is abroad,

Pale, desert woods ! within your crowd ;

And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,
Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

WOODS IN WINTER. 41

Chill airs and wintry winds ! my ear
Has grown familiar with your song ;

I hear it in the opening year, —
I listen, and it cheers me long.

HYMN
OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM,

AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKl's BANNER.

WHEN the dying flame of day
Through the chancel shot its ray,
Far the glimmering tapers shed
Faint light on the cowled head ;
And the censer burning swung,
Where, before the altar, hung
The blood-red banner, that with prayer

Had been consecrated there.

HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS. 43

And the nun's sweet hymn was heard the while,
Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle.

ct Take thy banner ! May it wave
Proudly o'er the good and brave ;
When the battle's distant wail
Breaks the sabbath of our vale,
When the clarion's music thrills
To the hearts of these lone hills,
When the spear in conflict shakes,
And the strong lance shivering breaks.

" Take thy banner ! and, beneath
The battle-cloud's encircling wreath,
Guard it ! — till our homes are free !
Guard it ! — God will prosper thee !
In the dark and trying hour,
In the breaking forth of power,
In the rush of steeds and men,
His right hand will shield thee then.

44 EARLIER POEMS.

cc Take thy banner ! But, when night
Closes round the ghastly fight,
If the vanquished warrior bow,
Spare him ! — By our holy vow,
By our prayers and many tears,
By the mercy that endears,
Spare him ! — he our love hath shared !
Spare him ! — as thou wouldst be spared !

"Take thy banner ! — and if e'er
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier,
And the muffled drum should beat
To the tread of mournful feet,
Then this crimson flag shall be
Martial cloak and shroud for thee."

The warrior took that banner proud,
And it was his martial cloak and shroud !

SUNRISE ON THE HILLS.

I STOOD upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch

Was glorious with the sun's returning march,

And woods were brightened, and soft gales

Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales.

The clouds were far beneath me; — bathed in light,

They gathered mid-way round the wooded height.

And, in their fading-glory, shone

Like hosts in battle overthrown,

As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance,

Through the gray mist thrust up its shattered lance,

46 EARLIER POEMS.

And rocking on the cliff was left
The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft.
The veil of cloud was lifted, and below
Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow
Was darkened by the forest's shade,
Or glistened in the white cascade ;
Where upward, in the mellow blush of day,
The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way.

I heard the distant waters dash,
I saw the current whirl and flash, —
And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach,
The woods were bending with a silent reach.
Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell,
The music of the village bell
Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills ;
And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills,
Was ringing to the merry shout,
That faint and far the glen sent out,

SUNRISE OJV THE HILLS. 47

Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke,
Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle
broke.

If thou art worn and hard beset
With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget,
If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep
Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep,
Go to the woods and hills ! — No tears
Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.

THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.

THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods,
That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows ;
Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.
With what a tender and impassioned voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,
When the fast-ushering star of morning comes
O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf ;

THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 49

Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve,
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,
Departs with silent pace ! That spirit moves
In the green valley, where the silver brook,
From its full laver, pours the white cascade ;
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,
Slips down through moss-grown stones with end
less laughter.

And frequent, on the everlasting hills,
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself
In all the dark embroidery of the storm,
And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid
The silent majesty of these deep woods,
Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,
As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air
Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards
Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades*
For them there was an eloquent voice in all
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,
4

50 EARLIER POEMS.

The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds, —
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes, —
Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in,
Mountain, and shattered. cliff, and sunny vale,
The distant lake, fountains, — and mighty trees,
In many a lazy syllable, repeating
Their old poetic legends to the wind.

And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill
The world ; and, in these wayward days of youth,
My busy fancy oft embodies it,
As a bright image of the light and beauty
That dwell in nature, — of the heavenly forms
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues
That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds
When the sun sets. Within her eye
The heaven of April, with its changing light,

THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 51

And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,
And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair
Is like the summer tresses of the trees,
When twilight makes them brown, and on her

cheek

Blushes the richness of an autumn sky,
With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,
It is so like the gentle air of Spring,
As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes
Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy
To have it round us, — and her silver voice
Is the rich music of a summer bird,
Heard in the still night, with its passionate ca
dence.

BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK.

ON sunny slope and beechen swell,
The shadowed light of evening fell ;
And, where the maple's leaf was brown,
With soft and silent lapse came down
The glory, that the wood receives,
At sunset, in its brazen leaves.

Far upward in the mellow light
Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white,

BURIAL OF THE MINN1S1NK. 53

Around a far uplifted cone,

In the warm blush of evening shone ;

An image of the silver lakes,

By which the Indian's soul awakes.

But soon a funeral hymn was heard
Where the soft breath of evening stirred
The tall, gray forest ; and a band
Of stern in heart, and strong in hand,
Came winding down beside the wave,
To lay the red chief in his grave.

They sang, that by his native bowers
He stood, in the last moon of flowers,
And thirty snows had not yet shed
Their glory on the warrior's head ;
But, as the summer fruit decays,
So died he in those naked days.

54 EARLIER POEMS.

A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin
Covered the warrior, and within
Its heavy folds the weapons, made
For the hard toils of war, were laid ;
The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds,
And the broad belt of shells and beads.

Before, a dark-haired virgin train
Chanted the death dirge of the slain ;
Behind, the long procession came
Of hoary men and chiefs of fame,
With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief,
Leading the war-horse of their chief.

Stripped of his proud and martial dress,
Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless,
With darting eye, and nostril spread,
And heavy and impatient tread,
He came ; and oft that eye so proud
Asked for his rider in the crowd.

BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. 55

They buried the dark chief they freed
Beside the grave his battle steed ;
And swift an arrow cleaved its way
To his stern heart ! One piercing neigh
Arose, — and, on the dead man's plain,
The rider grasps his steed again.

TRANSLATIONS.

[Don Jorge Manrique, the author of the following poem,
flourished in the last half of the fifteenth century. He
followed the profession of arms, and died on the field of
battle. Mariana, in his History of Spain, makes hon
orable mention of him, as being present at the siege of
Ucles ; and speaks of him as u a youth of estimable quali
ties, who in this war gave brilliant proofs of his valor.
He died young ; and was thus cut off from long exercising
his great virtues, and exhibiting to the world the light
of his genius, which was already known to fame." He
was mortally wounded in a skirmish near Canavete, in
in the year 1479.

The name of Rodrigo Manrique. the father of the poet,
Conde de Paredes and Maestre de Santiago, is well known
in Spanish history and song. He died in 1476 ; according
to Mariana, in the town of Ucles ; but, according to the
poem of his son, in Ocaaa. It was his death that called
forth the poem upon which rests the literary reputation
of the younger Manrique. In the language of his histo
rian, " Don Jorge Manrique, in an elegant Ode, full of
poetic beauties, rich embellishments of genius, arid high
moral reflections, mourned the death of his father as with
a funeral hymn." This praise is not exaggerated. The
poem is a model in its kind. Its conception is solemn
and beautiful ; and, in accordance with it, the style moves
on — calm, dignified, and majestic.]

COPLAS DE MANRIQUE.

FROM THE SPANISH.

O LET the soul her slumbers break,
Let thought be quickened, and awake ;
Awake to see

How soon this life is past and gone,
And death conies softly stealing on,
How silently !

Swiftly our pleasures glide away,
Our hearts recall the distant day
With many sighs ;
The moments that are speeding fast
We heed not, but the past, — the past, —
More highly prize.

60 TRANSLATIONS.

Onward its course the present keeps,
Onward the constant current sweeps,
Till life is done ;
And, did we judge of time aright,
The past and future in their flight
Would be as one.

Let no one fondly dream again,
That Hope and all her shadowy train
Will not decay ;

Fleeting as were the dreams of old,
Remembered like a tale that 's told,
They pass awray.

Our lives are rivers, gliding free
To that unfathomed, boundless sea,
The silent grave !

Thither all earthly pomp and boast
Roll, to be swallowed up and lost
In one dark wave.

COPLAS DE MANRIUUE. 61

Thither the mighty torrents stray,
Thither the brook pursues its way,
And tinkling rill.

There all are equal. Side by side
The poor man and the son of pride
Lie calm and still.

I will not here invoke the throng

Of orators and sons of song,

The deathless few ;

Fiction entices and deceives,

And, sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves,

Lies poisonous dew.

To One alone my thoughts arise,

The Eternal Truth,— the Good and Wise,—

To Him I cry,

Who shared on earth our common lot,

But the world comprehended not

His deity.

62 TRANSLATIONS.

This world is but the rugged road
Which leads us to the bright abode
Of peace above ;
So let us choose that narrow way,
Which leads no traveller's foot astray
From realms of love.

Our cradle is the starting-place,
In life we run the onward race,
And reach the goal ;
When, in the mansions of the blest,
Death leaves to its eternal rest
The weary soul.

Did we but use it as we ought,

This world would school each wandering

To its high state. [thought

Faith wings the soul beyond the sky,

Up to that better world on high,

For which we wait.

COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 63

Yes, — the glad messenger of love.
To guide us to our home above,
The Saviour came ;
Born amid mortal cares and fears,
He suffered in this vale of tears
A death of shame.

Behold of what delusive worth
The bubbles we pursue on earth,
The shapes we chase,
Amid a world of treachery !
They vanish ere death shuts the eye,
And leave no trace.

Time steals them from us, — chances strange,

Disastrous accidents, and change,

That come to all ;

Even in the most exalted state,

Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate ;

The strongest fall.

64 TRANSLATIONS.

Tell me, — the charms that lovers seek
In the clear eye and blushing cheek,
The hues that play
O'er rosy lip and brow of snow,
When hoary age approaches slow,
Ah, where are they ?

The cunning skill, the curious arts,
The glorious strength that youth imparts
In life's first stage ;
These shall become a heavy weight,
When Time swings wide his outward gate
To weary age.

The noble blood of Gothic name,
Heroes emblazoned high to fame,
In long array ;

How, in the onward course of time,
The landmarks of that race sublime
Were swept away !

COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 65

Some, the degraded slaves of lust,
Prostrate and trampled in the dust,
Shall rise no more ;
Others, by guilt and crime, maintain
The scutcheon, that, without a stain,
Their fathers bore.

"Wealth and the high estate of pride,
With what untimely speed they glide,
How soon depart !
Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay,
The vassals of a mistress they,
Of fickle heart.

These gifts in Fortune's hands are found ;
Her swift revolving wheel turns round,
And they are gone !
No rest the inconstant goddess knows,
But changing, and without repose,
Still hurries on.

66 TRANSLATIONS.

Even could the hand of avarice save
Its gilded baubles, till the grave
Reclaimed its prey,
Let none on such poor hopes rely ;
Life, like an empty dream, flits by,
And where are they ?

Earthly desires and sensual lust

Are passions springing from the dust, —

They fade and die ;

But, in the life beyond the tomb,

They seal the immortal spirit's doom

Eternally !

The pleasures and delights, which mask
In treacherous smiles life's serious task,
What are they, all,
But the fleet coursers of the chase,
And death an ambush in the race,
Wherein we fall ?

COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 67

No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed,
Brook no delay, — but onward speed
With loosened rein ;
And, when the fatal snare is near,
We strive to check our mad career,
But strive in vain.

Could we new charms to age impart,
And fashion with a cunning art
The human face,

As we can clothe the soul with light,
And make the glorious spirit bright
With heavenly grace, —

How busily each passing hour
Should we exert that magic power !
What ardor show,
To deck the sensual slave of sin,
Yet leave the freeborn soul within,
In weeds of woe !

68 TRANSLATIONS.

Monarchs, the powerful and the strong,

Famous in history and in song

Of olden time,

Saw, by the stern decrees of fate,

Their kingdoms lost, and desolate

Their race sublime.

Who is the champion ? who the strong ?

Pontiff and priest, and sceptred throng ?

On these shall fall

As heavily the hand of Death,

As when it stays the shepherd's breath

Beside his stall.

I speak not of the Trojan name,

Neither its glory nor its shame

Has met our eyes ;

Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead,

Though we have heard so oft, and read,

Their histories.

COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 69

Little avails it now to know
Of ages passed so long ago,
Nor how they rolled ;
Our theme shall be of yesterday,
"Which to oblivion sweeps away,
Like days of old.

Where is the King, Don Juan ? Where

Each royal prince and noble heir

Of Aragon ?

Where are the courtly gallantries ?

The deeds of love and high emprise,

In battle done ?

•

Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye,
And scarf, and gorgeous panoply,
And nodding plume, —
What were they but a pageant scene ?
What but the garlands, gay and green,
That deck the tomb ?

70 TRANSLATIONS.

Where are the high-born dames, and where
Their gay attire, and jewelled hair,
And odors sweet ?

Where are the gentle knights, that came
To kneel, and breathe love's ardent flame,
Low at their feet ?

Where is the song of Troubadour ?

Where are the lute and gay tambour

They loved of yore ?

Where is the mazy dance of old,

The flowing robes, inwrought with gold,

The dancers wore ?

And he who next the sceptre swayed,
Henry, whose royal court displayed
Such power and pride ;
O, in what winning smiles arrayed,
The world its various pleasures laid
His throne beside !

COPLAS DE MANR1QUE.

But O ! how false and full of guile
That world, which wore so soft a smile
But to betray !

She, that had been his friend before,
Now from the fated monarch tore
Her charms away.

The countless gifts, — the stately walls,

The royal palaces, and halls

All filled with gold ;

Plate with armorial bearings wrought,

Chambers with ample treasures fraught

Of wealth untold ;

The noble steeds, and harness bright,
And gallant lord, and stalwart knight,
In rich array, —

Where shall we seek them now ? Alas !
Like the bright dewdrops on the grass,
They passed away.

72 TRANSLATIONS.

His brother, too, whose factious zeal
Usurped the sceptre of Castile,
Unskilled to reign ;
What a gay, brilliant court had he,
When all the flower of chivalry
Was in his train !

But he was mortal ; and the breath,
That flamed from the hot forge of Death,
Blasted his years ;

Judgment of God ! that flame by thee,
When raging fierce and fearfully,
Was quenched in tears !

Spain's haughty Constable, — the true
And gallant Master, whom we knew
Most loved of all.

Breathe not a whisper of his pride, —
He on the gloomy scaffold died,
Ignoble fall !

COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 73

The countless treasures of his care,
His hamlets green, and cities fair,
His mighty power, —
What were they all but grief and shame,
Tears and a broken heart, when came
The parting hour ?

His other brothers, proud and high,
Masters, who, in prosperity,
Might rival kings ;
Who made the bravest and the best
The bondsmen of their high behest,
Their underlings ;

What was their prosperous estate,
When high exalted and elate
With power and pride ?
What, but a transient gleam of light,
A flame, which, glaring at its hei'ght,
Grew dim and died ?

TRANSLATIONS.

So many a duke of royal name,
Marquis and count of spotless fame,
And baron brave,

That might the sword of empire wield,
All these, O Death, hast thou concealed
In the dark grave !

Their deeds of mercy and of arms,
In peaceful days, or war's alarms,
When thou dost show,
O Death, thy stern and angry face,
One stroke of thy all-powerful mace
Can overthrow.

Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh,
Pennon and standard flaunting high,
And flag displayed ;
High battlements intrenched around,
Bastion, and moated wall, and mound,
And palisade,

COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 75

And covered trench, secure and deep, — •

All these cannot one victim keep,

O Death, from thee,

When thou dost battle in thy wrath,

And thy strong shafts pursue their path

Unerringly.

O World ! so few the years we live,

Would that the life which thou dost give

Were life indeed !

Alas ! thy sorrows fall so fast,

Our happiest hour is when at last

The soul is freed.

Our days are covered o'er with grief,

And sorrows neither few nor brief

Veil all in gloom ;

Left desolate of real good,

Within this cheerless solitude

No pleasures bloom.

76 TRANSLATIONS.

Thy pilgrimage begins in tears,
And ends in bitter doubts and fears,
Or dark despair ;
Midway so many toils appear,
That he who lingers longest here
Knows most of care.

Thy goods are bought with many a groan,

By the hot sweat of toil alone,

And weary hearts ;

Fleet-footed is the approach of woe,

But with a lingering step and slow

Its form departs.

And he, the good man's shield and shade.
To whom all hearts their homage paid,
As Virtue's son, —
Roderic Manrique, — he whose name
Is written on the scroll of Fame,
Spain's champion ;

COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 77

His signal deeds and prowess high

Demand no pompous eulogy, —

Ye saw his deeds !

Why should their praise in verse be sung ?

The name, that dwells on every tongue,

No minstrel needs.

To friends a friend ; — how kind to all
The vassals of this ancient hall
And feudal fief!
To foes how stern a foe was he !
And to the valiant and the free
How brave a chief !

What prudence with the old and wise ;
What grace in youthful gayeties ;
In all how sage !
Benignant to the serf and slave,
He showed the base and falsely brave
A lion's rage.

78 TRANSLATIONS.

His was Octavian's prosperous star,

The rush of Caesar's conquering car

At battle's call ;

His, Scipio's virtue ; his, the skill

And the indomitable will

Of Hannibal.

His was a Trajan's goodness, — his

A Titus' noble charities

And righteous laws ;

The arm of Hector, and the might

Of Tully, to maintain the right

In truth's just cause ;

The clemency of Antonine,
Aurelius' countenance divine,
Firm, gentle, still ;
The eloquence of Adrian,
And Theodosius' love to man,
And generous will ;

COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 79

In tented field and bloody fray,
An Alexander's vigorous sway
And stern command ;
The faith of Constantine ; ay, more,
The fervent love Camillus bore
His native land.

He left no well-filled treasury,

He heaped no pile of riches high,

Nor massive plate ;

He fought the Moors, — and, in their fall,

City and tower and castled wall

Were his estate.

Upon the hard-fought battle-ground,
Brave steeds and gallant riders found
A common grave ;

And there the warrior's hand did gain
The rents, and the long vassal train,
That conquest gave.

80 TRANSLATIONS.

And if, of old, his halls displayed
The honored and exalted grade
His worth had gained,
So, in the dark, disastrous hour,
Brothers and bondsmen of his power
His hand sustained.

After high deeds, not left untold,
In the stern warfare, which of old
'T was his to share,
Such noble leagues he made, that more
And fairer regions, than before,
His guerdon were.

These are the records, half effaced,

Which, with the hand of youth, he traced

On history's page ;

But with fresh victories he drew

Each fading character anew

In his old age.

COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. SI

By his unrivalled skill, by great
And veteran service to the state,
By worth adored,
He stood, in his high dignity,
The proudest knight of chivalry,
Knight of the Sword.

He found his cities and domains
Beneath a tyrant's galling chains
And cruel power ;
But, by fierce battle and blockade,
Soon his own banner was displayed
From every tower.

By the tried valor of his hand,

His monarch and his native land

Were nobly served ; —

Let Portugal repeat the story,

And proud Castile, who shared the glory

His arms deserved.

82 TRANSLATIONS.

And when so oft, for weal or woe,

His life upon the fatal throw

Had been cast down ;

When he had served, with patriot zeal,

Beneath the banner of Castile,

His sovereign's crown ;

And done such deeds of valor strong,
That neither history nor song
Can count them all ;
Then, on Ocana's castled rock,
Death at his portal came to knock,
With sudden call, —

Saying, " Good Cavalier, prepare
To leave this world of toil and care
With joyful mien ;
Let thy strong heart of steel this da}>-
Put on its armour for the fray, —
The closing scene.

COPLAS DE MANRiaUE. 83

Ci Since thou hast been, in battle-strife.
So prodigal of health and life,
For earthly fame,
Let virtue nerve thy heart again ;
Loud on the last stern battle-plain
They call thy name.

u Think not the struggle that draws near
Too terrible for man, — nor fear
To meet the foe ;
Nor let thy noble spirit grieve,
Its life of glorious fame to leave
On earth below.

4 c A life of honor and of worth
Has no eternity on earth, —
'T is but a name ;
And yet its glory far exceeds
That base and sensual life, which leads
To want and shame.

84 TRANSLATIONS.

<c The eternal life, beyond the sky,
Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high
And proud estate ;

The soul in dalliance laid, — the spirit
Corrupt with sin, — shall not inherit
A joy so great.

" But the good monk, in cloistered cell,
Shall gain it by his book and bell,
His prayers and tears ;
And the brave knight, whose arm endures
Fierce battle, and against the Moors
His standard rears.

" And thou, brave knight, whose hand has poured
The life-blood of the Pagan horde
O'er all the land,

In heaven shall thou receive, at length,
The guerdon of thine earthly strength
And dauntless hand.

COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 85

" Cheered onward by this promise sure,
Strong in the faith entire and pure
Thou dost profess,
Depart, — thy hope is certainty, —
The third — the better life on high
Shalt thou possess."

" O Death, no more, no more delay ;
My spirit longs to flee away,
And be at rest ;

The will of Heaven my will shall be, —
I bow to the divine decree,
To God's behest.

" My soul is ready to depart,
No thought rebels, the obedient heart
Breathes forth no sigh ;
The wish on earth to linger still
"Were vain, when 't is God's sovereign will
That we shall die.

86 TRANSLATIONS.

<f O thou, that for our sins didst take
A human form, and humbly make
Thy home on earth ;
Thou, that to thy divinity
A human nature didst ally
By mortal birth,

" And in that form didst suffer here
Torment, and agony, and fear,
So patiently ;

By thy redeeming grace alone,
And not for merits of my own,
O, pardon me ! "

As thus the dying warrior prayed,
Without one gathering mist or shade
Upon his mind ;
Encircled by his family,
Watched by affection's gentle eye
So soft and kind ;

COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 87

His soul to Him, who gave it, rose ;

God lead it to its long repose,

Its glorious rest !

And, though the warrior's sun has set,

Its light shall linger round us yet,

Bright, radiant, blest.*

* This poem of Manrique is a great favorite in Spain.
No less than four poetic Glosses, or running commentaries,
upon it have been published, no one of which, however,
possesses great poetic merit. That of the Carthusian monk,
Rodrigo de Valdepenas, is the best. It is known as the
Glosa del Cartujo. There is also a prose Commentary by
Luis de Aranda.

The following stanzas of the poem were found in the
author's pocket, after his death on the field of battle.

" O World ! so few the years we live,
Would that the life which thou dost give
Were life indeed !
Alas ! thy sorrows fall so fast,
Our happiest hour is when at last
The soul is freed.

88 TRANSLATIONS.

" Our days are covered o'er with grief,
And sorrows neither few nor brief
Veil all in gloom ;
Left desolate of real good,
Within this cheerless solitude
No pleasures bloom.

" Thy pilgrimage begins in tears,
And ends in bitter doubts and fears,
Or dark despair ;
Midway so many toils appear,
That he who lingers longest here
Knows most of care.

" Thy goods are bought with many a groan,
By the hot sweat of toil alone,
And weary hearts j
Fleet-footed is the approach of woe,
But with a lingering step and slow
Its form departs."

THE GOOD SHEPHERD.

FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA.

SHEPHERD ! that with thine amorous, sylvan song
Hast broken the slumber which encompassed me, —
That mad'st thy crook from the accursed tree,
On which thy powerful arms were stretched so long!
Lead me to mercy's ever-flowing fountains ;
For thou my shepherd, guard, and guide shalt be;
I will obey thy voice, and wait to see
Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains.

90 TRANSLATIONS.

Hear, Shepherd! — thou who for thy flock art dying,
O, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou
Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow.
O, wait ! — to thee my weary soul is crying, —
Wait for me ! — Yet why ask it, when I see,
With feet nailed to the cross, thou 'rt waiting still
for me !

TO-MORROW.

FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA.

LORD, what am I, that, with unceasing care,
Thou didst seek after me, — that thou didst wait,
Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate,
And pass the gloomy nights of winter there ?
O strange delusion ! — that I did not greet
Thy blest approach, and O, to Heaven how lost,
If my ingratitude's unkindly frost
Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet.

92 TRANSLATIONS.

How oft my guardian angel gently cried,
" Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see
How he persists to knock and wait for thee ! "
And, O ! how often to that voice of sorrow,
" To-morrow we will open," I replied,
And when the morrow came I answered still, " To
morrow."

THE NATIVE LAND.

FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA.

CLEAR fount of light ! my native land on high,
Bright with a glory that shall never fade !
Mansion of truth ! without a veil or shade,
Thy holy quiet meets the spirit's eye.
There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence,
Gasping no longer for life's feeble breath ;
But, sentineled in heaven, its glorious presence
With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not, death.

94 TRANSLATIONS.

Beloved country ! banished from thy shore,
A stranger in this prison-house of clay,
The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for thee !
Heavenward the bright perfections I adore
Direct, and the sure promise cheers the way,
That, whither love aspires, there shall my dwelling
be.

THE IMAGE OF GOD.

FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA.

O LORD ! that seest, from yon starry height,
Centred in one the future and the past,
Fashioned in thine own image, see how fast
The world obscures in me what once was bright !
Eternal Sun ! the warmth which thou hast given,
To cheer life's flowery April, fast decays ;
Yet, in the hoary winter of my days,
For ever green shall be my trust in Heaven.

96 TRANSLATIONS.

Celestial King ! O let thy presence pass

Before my spirit, and an image fair

Shall meet that look of mercy from on high,

As the reflected image in a glass

Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there,

And owes its being to the gazer's eye.

THE BROOK.

FROM THE SPANISH.

LAUGH of the mountain ! — lyre of bird and tree !
Pomp of the meadow ! mirror of the morn !
The soul of April, unto whom are born
The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee !
Although, where'er thy devious current strays,
The lap of earth with gold and silver teems,
To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems
Than golden sands, that charm each shepherd 's

gaze.

98 TRANSLATIONS.

How without guile thy bosom, all transparent
As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye
Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles count!
How, without malice murmuring, glides thy current !
O sweet simplicity of days gone by !
Thou shun'st the haunts of man, to dwell in lim
pid fount !

THE CELESTIAL PILOT.

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, II.

AND now, behold! as at the approach of morning,
Through the gross vapors, Mars grows fiery red
Down in the west upon the ocean floor,

Appeared to me, — may I again behold it ! —
A light along the sea, so swiftly coming,
Its motion by no flight of wing is equalled.

And when therefrom I had withdrawn a little
Mine eyes, that I might question my conductor,
Again I saw it brighter grown and larger.

100 TRANSLATIONS.

Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared
I knew not what of white, and underneath,
Little by little, there came forth another.

My master yet had uttered not a word,
While the first brightness into wings unfolded ;
But, when he clearly recognised the pilot,

He cried aloud ; " Quick, quick, and bow the knee!
Behold the Angel of God ! fold up thy hands !
Henceforward shalt thou see such officers !

e< See, how he scorns all human arguments,

So that no oar he wants, nor other sail

Than his own wings, between so distant shores !

" See, how he holds them, pointed straight to

heaven,

Fanning the air with the eternal pinions,
That do not moult themselves like mortal hair ! "

THE CELESTIAL PILOT. 101

And then, as nearer and more near us came
The Bird of Heaven, more glorious he appeared,
So that the eye could not sustain his presence,

But down I cast it ; and he came to shore
With a small vessel, gliding swift and light,
So that the water swallowed nought thereof.

Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot !
Beatitude seemed written in his face !
And more than a hundred spirits sat within.

" In exitu Israel out of Egypt ! "
Thus sang they all together in one voice,
With whatso in that Psalm is after written.

Then made he sign of holy rood upon them,
Whereat all cast themselves upon the shore,
And he departed swiftly as he came.

102

THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE.

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXVIII.

LONGING already to search in and round
The heavenly forest, dense and living-green,
Which to the eyes tempered the new-born day,

Withouten more delay I left the bank,
Crossing the level country slowly, slowly,
Over the soil, that everywhere breathed fragrance.

A gently-breathing air, that no mutation
Had in itself, smote me upon the forehead,
No heavier blow, than of a pleasant breeze,

THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE. 103

Whereat the tremulous branches readily

Did all of them bow downward towards that side

Where its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain ;

Yet not from their upright direction bent
So that the little birds upon their tops
Should cease the practice of their tuneful art ;

But, with full-throated joy, the hours of prime
Singing received they in the midst of foliage
That made monotonous burden to their rhymes,

Even as from branch to branch it gathering swells,
Through the pine forests on the shore of Chiassi,
When jEolus unlooses the Sirocco.

Already my slow steps had led me on

Into the ancient wood so far, that I

Could see no more the place where I had entered.

104 TRANSLATIONS.

And lo ! my farther course cut off a river,
Which, towards the left hand, with its little waves,
Bent down the grass, that on its margin sprang.

All waters that on earth most limpid are,
Would seem to have within themselves some mix
ture,
Compared widi that, which nothing doth conceal,

Although it moves on with a brown, brown current,
Under the shade perpetual, that never
Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon.

105

BEATRICE.

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXX., XXXI.

EVEN as the Blessed, in the new covenant,
Shall rise up quickened, each one from his grave,
Wearing again the garments of the flesh,

So, upon that celestial chariot,

A hundred rose ad vocem tanti senis,

Ministers and messengers of life eternal.

They all were saying ; " Benedictus qui vcnis,"
And scattering flowers above and round about,
u Manibus o date lilia plenis."

106 TRANSLATIONS.

I once beheld, at the approach of day,
The orient sky all stained with roseate hues,
And the other heaven with light serene adorned,

And the sun's face uprising, overshadowed,
So that, by temperate influence of vapors,
The eye sustained his aspect for long while ;

Thus in the bosom of a cloud of flowers,
Which from those hands angelic were thrown up,
And down descended inside and without,

With crown of olive o'er a snow-white veil,
Appeared a lady, under a green mantle,
Vested in colors of the living flame.

BEATRICE. 107

Even as the snow, among the living rafters

Upon the back of Italy, congeals,

Blown on and beaten by Sclavonian winds,

And then, dissolving, filters through itself,
Whene'er the land, that loses shadow, breathes,
Like as a taper melts before a fire,

Even such I was, without a sigh or tear,
Before the song of those who chime for ever
After the chiming of the eternal spheres ;

But, when I heard in those sweet melodies
Compassion for me, more than had they said,
" O wherefore, lady, dost thou thus consume him? "

The ice, that was about my heart congealed,
To air and water changed, and, in my anguish,
Through lips and eyes came gushing from my
breast.

108 TRANSLATIONS.

Confusion and dismay, together mingled,
Forced such a feeble " Yes ! " out of my mouth,
To understand it one had need of sight.

Even as a cross-bow breaks, when 't is discharged,
Too tensely drawn the bow-string and the bow,
And with less force the arrow hits the mark ;

So I gave way under this heavy burden,
Gushing forth into bitter tears and sighs,
And the voice, fainting, flagged upon its passage.

109

SPRING.

FROM THE FREXCH OF CHARLES D'ORI.EAXS.

XV. CENTURY.

GENTLE Spring! — in sunshine clad,
Well dost thou thy power display !

For Winter maketh the light heart sad,

And thou, — thou makest the sad heart gay.

He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train,

The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain ;

And they shrink away, and they flee in fear,
When thy merry step draws near.

110 TRANSLATIONS.

Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old,
Their beards of icicles and snow ;

And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold,
We must cower over the embers low ;

And, snugly housed from the wind and weather,

Mope like birds that are changing feather.

But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear,
When thy merry step draws near.

Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky

Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud ;
But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh ;
Thou tearest away the mournful shroud,
And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly,
Who has toiled for nought both late and early,
Is banished afar by the new-born year,
When thy merry step draws near.

Ill

THE CHILD ASLEEP.

FROM THE FRENCH.

SWEET babe ! true portrait of thy father's face,
Sleep on the bosom, that thy lips have pressed !

Sleep, little one ; and closely, gently place
Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast.

Upon that tender eye, my little friend,

Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me !

I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend ; —
'T is sweet to watch for thee, — alone for thee !

112 TRANSLATIONS.

His arms fall down ; sleep sits upon his brow ;

His eye is closed ; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm.
Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow,

Would you not say he slept on Death's cold arm ?

Awake, my boy ! — I tremble with affright !

Awake, and chase this fatal thought ! — Unclose
Thine eye but for one moment on the light !

Even at the price of thine, give me repose !

Sweet error! — he but slept, — I breathe again; —
Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile!

O ! when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain,
Beside me watch to see thy waking smile ?

113

THE GRAVE.

FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON.

FOR thee was a house built
Ere thou wast born,
For thee was a mould meant
Ere thou of mother earnest.
But it is not made ready,
Nor its depth measured,
Nor is it seen
How long it shall be.
8

114 TRANSLATIONS.

Now I bring thee
Where thou shalt be ;
Now I shall measure thee,
And the mould afterwards.

Thy house is not
Highly timbered,
It is unhigh and low ;
When thou art therein,
The heel-ways are low,
The side-ways unhigh.
The roof is built
Thy breast full nigh,
So thou shalt in mould
Dwell full cold,
Dimly and dark.

Doorless is that house,
And dark it is within ;

THE GRAVE.

There thou art fast detained
And Death hath the key.
Loathsome is that earth-house,
And grim within to dwell.
There thou shall dwell,
And worms shall divide thee.

Thus thou art laid,
And leavest thy friends ;
Thou hast no friend,
Who will come to thee,
Who will ever see
How that house pleaseth thee ;
Who will ever open
The door for thee
And descend after thee,
For soon thou art loathsome
And hateful to see.

116

KING CHRISTIAN.
A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK.

FROM THE DANISH OF JOHANNES EVALD.

KING CHRISTIAN stood by the lofty mast

In mist and smoke ;
His sword was hammering so fast.
Through Gothic helm and brain it passed ;
Then sank each hostile hulk and mast,

In mist and smoke.

" Fly ! " shouted they, " fly, he who can !
Who braves of Denmark's Christian

The stroke ? "

KING CHRISTIAN. H7

Nils Juel gave heed to the tempest's roar,

Now is the hour !

He hoisted his blood-red flag once more,
And smote upon the foe full sore,
And shouted loud, through the tempest's roar,

" Now is the hour ! "
" Fly ! " shouted they, " for shelter fly !
Of Denmark's Juel who can defy

The power ? "

North Sea ! a glimpse of Wessel rent

Thy murky sky !

Then champions to thine arms were sent ;
Terror and Death glared where he went ;
From the waves was heard a wail, that rent

Thy murky sky !

From Denmark, thunders Tordenskiol ',
Let each to Heaven commend his soul,

And fly !

118 TRANSLATIONS.

Path of the Dane to fame and might !

Dark-rolling wave !

Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight,
Goes to meet danger with despite,
Proudly as thou the tempest's might,

Dark-rolling wave !
And amid pleasures and alarms,
And war and victory, be thine arms

My grave ! *

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

119

THE HAPPIEST LAND.
FRAGMENT OF A MODERN BALLAD.

FROM THE GERMAN.

THERE sat one day in quiet,
By an alehouse on the Rhine,

Four hale and hearty fellows,
And drank the precious wine.

The landlord's daughter filled their cups,

Around the rustic board ;
Then sat they all so calm and still,

And spake not one rude word.

120 TRANSLATIONS.

But, when the maid departed,
A Swabian raised his hand,

And cried, all hot and flushed with wine,
" Long live the Swabian land !

" The greatest kingdom upon earth
Cannot with that compare ;

With all the stout and hardy men
And the nut-brown maidens there."

" Ha ! " cried a Saxon, laughing, —
And dashed his beard with wine ;

" I had rather live in Lapland,
Than that Swabian land of thine !

" The goodliest land on all this earth,

It is the Saxon land !
There have I as many maidens

As fingers on this hand ! "

THE HAPPIEST LAND. 121

" Hold your tongues ! both Swabian and Saxon ! "

A bold Bohemian cries ;
" If there 's a heaven upon this earth,

In Bohemia it lies.

u There the tailor blows the flute,

And the cobler blows the horn,
And the miner blows the bugle,

Over mountain gorge and bourn."

And then the landlord's daughter
Up to heaven raised her hand,

And said, u Ye may no more contend, —
There lies the happiest land ! "

122

THE WAVE.

FROM THE GERMAN OF TIEDGE.

" WHITHER, thou turbid wave ?
Whither, with so much haste,
As if a thief wert thou ? "

u I am the Wave of Life,
Stained with my margin's dust ;
From the struggle and the strife
Of the narrow stream I fly
To the Sea's immensity,
To wash from me the slime
Of the muddy banks of Time."

123

THE DEAD.

FROM THE GERMAN OF KLOPSTOCK.

How they so softly rest,
All, all the holy dead,
Unto whose dwelling-place
Now doth my soul draw near !
How they so softly rest,
All in their silent graves,
Deep to corruption
Slowly down-sinking !

124 TRANSLATIONS.

And they no longer weep,
Here, where complaint is still J
And they no longer feel,
Here, where all gladness flies !
And, by the cypresses
Softly o'ershadowed,
Until the Angel
Calls them, they slumber !

125

THE BIRD AND THE SHIP.

FROM THE GERMAN OF MULLEK.

" THE rivers rush into the sea,
By castle and town they go ;

The winds behind them merrily
Their noisy trumpets blow.

" The clouds are passing far and high,
We little birds in them play ;

And every thing, that can sing and fly,
Goes with us, and far away.

126 TRANSLATIONS.

" I greet thee, bonny boat ! Whither, or whence,
With thy fluttering golden band ?" —

u I greet thee, little bird ! To the wide sea
I haste from the narrow land.

u Full and swollen is every sail ;

I see no longer a hill,
I have trusted all to the sounding gale,

And it will not let me stand still.

" And wilt thou, little bird, go with us ?

Thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall,
For full to sinking is my house

With merry companions all." —

u I need not and seek not company,

Bonny boat, I can sing all alone ;
For the mainmast tall too heavy am I,

Bonny boat, I have wings of my own.

THE BIRD AND THE SHIP. 127

" High over the sails, high over the mast,

Who shall gainsay these joys ?
When thy merry companions are still, at last,

Thou shall hear the sound of my voice.

u Who neither may rest, nor listen may,

God bless them every one !
I dart away, in the bright blue day,

And the golden fields of the sun.

" Thus do I sing my weary song,

Wherever the four winds blow ;
And this same song, my whole life long,

Neither Poet nor Printer may know."

128

WHITHER ?

FROM THE GERMAN OF MULLER.

I HEARD a brooklet gushing
From its rocky fountain near,

Down into the valley rushing,
So fresh and wondrous clear.

I know not what came o'er me.
Nor who the counsel gave ;

But I must hasten downward,
All with my pilgrim-stave ;

WHITHER? 129

Downward, and ever farther,

And ever the brook beside ;
And ever fresher murmured,

And ever clearer, the tide.

Is this the way I was going ?

Whither, O brooklet, say !
Thou hast, with thy soft murmur,

Murmured my senses away.

What do I say of a murmur ?

That can no murmur be ;
'T is the water-nymphs, that are singing

Their roundelays under me.

Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur,

And wander merrily near ;
The wheels of a mill are going

In every brooklet clear.
9

130

BEWARE !

FROM THE GERMAN.

I KNOW a maiden fair to see,

Take care !
She can both false and friendly be,

Beware ! Beware !