Then the hunter turned away from that scene, Where the home of his fathers once had been, And heard, by the distant and measured stroke, That the woodman hewed down the giant oak- And burning thoughts flashed over his mind, Of the white man's faith, and love unkind.
The moon of the harvest grew high and bright, As her golden horn pierced the cloud of white,- A footstep was heard in the rustling brake, Where the beech overshadowed the misty lake, And a mourning voice, and a plunge from shore, And the hunter was seen on the hills no more.
When years had passed on, by that still lake side, The fisher looked down through the silver tide, And there on the smooth yellow sand displayed, A skeleton wasted and white was laid, And 'twas seen, as the waters moved deep and slow, That the hand was still grasping a hunter's bow.
Built in the old Colonial day, When men lived in a grander way, With ampler hospitality; A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall, Now somewhat fallen to decay, With weather-stains upon the wall, And stairways worn, and crazy doors, And creaking and uneven floors, And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall.
A region of repose it seems,
A place of slumber and of dreams, Remote among the wooded hills! For there no noisy railway speeds, Its torch-race scattering smoke and gleeds;
But noon and night, the panting teams Stop under the great oaks, that throw Tangles of light and shade below, On roofs and doors, and window-sills. Across the road the barns display Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay, Through the wide doors the breezes blow,
The wattled cocks strut to and fro, And, half-effaced by rain and shine, The Red Horse prances on the sign.
Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode Deep silence reigned, save when a gust Went rushing down the country road, And skeletons of leaves, and dust, A moment quickened by its breath, Shuddered and danced their dance of
And through the ancient oaks o'erhead Mysterious voices moaned and fled.
But from the parlour of the inn A pleasant murmur smote the ear, Like water rushing through a weir; Oft interrupted by the din
Of laughter and of loud applause, And, in each intervening pause, The music of a violin.
The fire-light, shedding over all The splendour of its ruddy glow, Filled the whole parlour large and low; It gleamed on wainscot and on wall, It touched with more than wonted grace Fair Princess Mary's pictured face;
It bronzed the rafters overhead, On the old spinet's ivory keys It played inaudible melodies,
It crowned the sombre clock with flame, The hands, the hours, the maker's name And painted with a livelier red The Landlord's coat-of-arms again; And, flashing on the window-pane, Emblazoned with its light and shade The jovial rhymes, that still remain, Writ near a century ago,
By the great Major Molineaux, Whom Hawthorne has immortal made.
Before the blazing fire of wood
Erect the wrapt musician stood; And ever and anon he bent His head upon his instrument, And seemed to listen, till he caught Confessions of its secret thought,- The joy, the triumph, the lament, The exultation and the pain; Then, by the magic of his art,
He soothed the throbbings of its heart, And lulled it into peace again.
Around the fireside at their case There sat a group of friends entranced With the delicious melodies; Who from the far-off noisy town Had to the wayside inn come down, To rest beneath its old oak-trees. The fire-light on their faces glanced, Their shadows on the wainscot danced, And, though of different lands and
Each had his tale to tell, and each Was anxious to be pleased and please. And while the sweet musician plays, Let me in outline sketch them all, Perchance uncouthly as the blaze With its uncertain touch portrays Their shadowy semblance on the wall.
But first the Landlord will I trace; Grave in his aspect and attire; A man of ancient pedigree, A justice of the peace was he,
Known in all Sudbury as "The Squire." Proud was he of his name and race, Of old Sir William and Sir Hugh,
And in the parlour, full in view, His coat-of-arms, well framed and glazed,
Upon the wall in colours blazed; He beareth gules upon his shield, A chevron argent in the field,
With three wolves' heads, and for the
A Wyvern part-per-pale addressed Upon a helmet barred; below The scroll reads, "By the name of Howe."
And over this, no longer bright, Though glimmering with a latent light, Was hung the sword his grandsire bore, In the rebellious days of yore, Down there at Concord in the fight.
A youth was there, of quiet ways, A Student of old books and days, To whom all tongues and lands were known,
And yet a lover of his own; With many a social virtue graced, And yet a friend of solitude; A man of such a genial mood, The heart of all things he embraced, And yet of such fastidious taste, He never found the best too good. Books were his passion and delight, And in his upper room at home Stood many a rare and sumptuous tome, In vellum bound, with gold bedight, Great volumes garmented in white, Recalling Florence, Pisa, Rome. He loved the twilight that surrounds The border-land of old romance; Where glitter hauberk, helm, and lance, And banner waves, and trumpet sounds, And ladies ride with hawk on wrist, And mighty warriors sweep along, Magnified by the purple mist,
The dusk of centuries and of song. The chronicles of Charlemagne, Of Merlin and the Mort d'Arthure, Mingled together in his brain
With tales of Flores and Blanchefleur, Sir Ferumbras, Sir Eglamour,
Sir Launcelot, Sir Morgadour, Sir Guy, Sir Bevis, Sir Gawain.
A young Sicilian, too, was there; In sight of Etna born and bred, Some breath of its volcanic air Was glowing in his heart and brain, And, being rebellious to his liege, After Palermo's fatal siege, Across the western seas he fled, In good King Bomba's happy reign. His face was like a summer night, All flooded with a dusky light; His hands were small; his teeth shone white
As sea-shells, when he smiled or spoke ; His sinews supple and strong as oak; Clean shaven was he as a priest Who at the mass on Sunday sings, Save that upon his upper lip
His beard, a good palm's length at least,
Level and pointed at the tip,
Shot sideways, like a swallow's wings. The poets read he o'er and o'er, And most of all the Immortal Four Of Italy; and next to those, The story-telling bard of prose, Who wrote the joyous Tuscan tales Of the Decameron, that make Fiesole's green hills and vales Remembered for Boccaccio's sake. Much too of music was his thought; The melodies and measures fraught With sunshine and the open air, Of vineyards and the singing sea Of his beloved Sicily;
And much it pleased him to peruse The songs of the Sicilian muse,—— Bucolic songs by Meli sung
In the familiar peasant tongue, That made men say, 66 Behold! once
The pitying gods to earth restore Theocritus of Syracuse!"
A Spanish Jew from Alicant
With aspect grand and grave was there; Vender of silks and fabrics rare, And attar of rose from the Levant. Like an old Patriarch he appeared, Abraham or Isaac, or at least Some later Prophet or High-Priest;
With lustrous eyes, and olive-skin, And, wildly tossed from cheeks and chin,
The tumbling cataract of his beard. His garments breathed a spicy scent Of cinnamon and sandal blent, Like the soft aromatic gales That meet the mariner, who sails Through the Moluccas, and the seas That wash the shores of Celebes. All stories that recorded are
By Pierre Alphonse he knew by heart, And it was rumoured he could say The Parables of Sandabar, And all the Fables of Pilpay, Or if not all, the greater part.
Well versed was he in Hebrew books, Talmud and Targum, and the lore Of Kabala; and evermore There was a mystery in his looks; His eyes seemed gazing far away, As if in vision or in trance
He heard the solemn sackbut play, And saw the Jewish maidens dance. A Theologian, from the school Of Cambridge on the Charles, was there;
Skilful alike with tongue and pen, He preached to all men everywhere The Gospel of the Golden Rule, The New Commandment given to men, Thinking the deed, and not the creed, Would help us in our utmost need. With reverent feet the earth he trod, Nor banished nature from his plan, But studied still with deep research To build the Universal Church, Lofty as is the love of God, And ample as the wants of man.
A Poet, too, was there, whose verse Was tender, musical, and terse; The inspiration, the delight, The gleam, the glory, the swift flight Of thoughts so sudden, that they seem The revelations of a dream,
All these were his; but with them came No envy of another's fame;
He did not find his sleep less sweet For music in some neighbouring street,
Nor rustling hear in every breeze The laurels of Miltiades.
Honour and blessings on his head While living, good report when dead, Who, not too eager for renown, Accepts, but does not clutch, the crown!
Last the Musician, as he stood Illumined by that fire of wood; Fair-haired, blue-eyed, his aspect blithe, His figure tall and straight and lithe, And every feature of his face Revealing his Norwegian race; A radiance, streaming from within, Around his eyes and forehead beamed, The Angel with the violin, Painted by Raphael, he seemed. He lived in that ideal world Whose language is not speech, but song; Around him evermore the throng Of elves and sprites their dances whirled :
The Strömkarl sang, the cataract hurled Its headlong waters from the height; And mingled in the wild delight The scream of sea-birds in their flight, The rumour of the forest trees, The plunge of the implacable seas, The tumult of the wind at night, Voices of eld, like trumpets blowing, Old ballads, and wild melodies Through mist and darkness pouring forth,
Like Elivagar's river flowing Out of the glaciers of the North.
The instrument on which he played Was in Cremona's workshops made, By a great master of the past, Ere yet was lost the art divine; Fashioned of maple and of pine, That in Tyrolian forests vast Had rocked and wrestled with the blast : Exquisite was it in design,
A marvel of the lutist's art, Perfect in each minutest part ; And in its hollow chamber, thus, The maker from whose hands it came Had written his unrivalled name,- "Antonius Stradivarius,"
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