For he hath read in Jesuit books Of those children of the wilderness, And now, good, simple man! he looks To see a painted savage stride Into the room, with shoulders bare, And eagle feathers in her hair,
And around her a robe of panther's hide.
Instead, he beholds with secret shame A form of beauty undefined, A loveliness without a name, Not of degree, but more of kind; Nor bold nor shy, nor short nor tall, But a new mingling of them all. Yes, beautiful beyond belief, Transfigured and transfused, he sees The lady of the Pyrenees, The daughter of the Indian chief. Beneath the shadow of her hair The gold-bronze color of the skin Seems lighted by a fire within, As when a burst of sunlight shines Beneath a sombre grove of pines,— A dusky splendor in the air.
The two small hands, that now are pressed In his, seem made to be caressed, They lie so warm, and soft, and still, Like birds half hidden in a nest, Trustful, and innocent of ill.
And ah! he cannot believe his ears When her melodious voice he hears Speaking his native Gascon tongue; The words she utters seem to be Part of some poem of Goudouli, They are not spoken, they are sung! And the Baron smiles, and says, I told you but the simple truth;
Ah, you may trust the eyes of youth!"
And in course of time the Curate learns A secret so dreadful, that by turns He is ice and fire, he freezes and burns. The Baron at confession hath said, That though this woman be his wife, He hath wed her as the Indians wed, He hath bought her for a gun and a knife! And the Curate replies: O profligate, O Prodigal Son! return once more To the open arms and the open door Of the Church, or ever it be too late. Thank God, thy father did not live To see what he could not forgive; On thee, so reckless and perverse, He left his blessing, not his curse.
But the nearer the dawn the darker the night, And by going wrong all things come right; Things have been mended that were worse, And the worse, the nearer they are to mend. For the sake of the living and the dead, Thou shalt be wed as Christians wed, And all things comes to a happy end."
O sun, that followest the night, In yon blue sky, serene and pure, And pourest thine impartial light Alike on mountain and on moor,
Pause for a moment in thy course, And bless the bridegroom and the bride! O Gave, that from thy hidden source In yon mysterious mountain-side Pursuest thy wandering way alone, And leaping down its steps of stone, Along the meadow-lands demure Stealest away to the Adour, Pause for a moment in thy course To bless the bridegroom and the bride! The choir is singing the matin song, The doors of the church are opened wide, The people crowd, and press, and throng To see the bridegroom and the bride. They enter and pass along the nave; They stand upon the father's grave; The bells are ringing soft and slow; The living above and the dead below Give their blessing on one and twain;
The warm wind blows from the hills of Spain, The birds are building, the leaves are green, And Baron Castine of St. Castine Hath come at last to his own again.
"NUNC plaudite!" the Student cried, When he had finished; now applaud, As Roman actors used to say At the conclusion of a play;" And rose, and spread his hands abroad, And smiling bowed from side to side, As one who bears the palm away.
And generous was the applause and loud, But less for him than for the sun,
That even as the tale was done
Burst from its canopy of cloud, And lit the landscape with the blaze Of afternoon on autumn days,
And filled the room with light, and made The fire of logs a painted shade.
THE evening came; the golden vane A moment in the sunset glanced, Then darkened, and then gleamed again As from the east the moon advanced And touched it with a softer light; While underneath, with flowing mane, Upon the sign the Red Horse pranced, And galloped forth into the night. But brighter than the afternoon That followed the dark day of rain, And brighter than the golden vane That glistened in the rising moon, Within the ruddy fire-light gleamed; And every separate window-pane, Backed by the outer darkness, showed A mirror, where the flamelets gleamed And flickered to and fro, and seemed A bonfire lighted in the road.
Amid the hospitable glow, Like an old actor on the stage, With the uncertain voice of age, The singing chimney chanted low The homely songs of long ago.
The voice that Ossian heard of yore, When midnight winds were in his hall; A ghostly and appealing call,
A sound of days that are no more! And dark as Ossian sat the Jew, And listened to the sound, and knew The passing of the airy hosts, The gray and misty cloud of ghosts In their interminable flight; And listening muttered in his beard, With accent indistinct and weird, "Who are ye, children of the Night?"
Beholding his mysterious face, "Tell me," the gay Sicilian said, "Why was it that in breaking bread At supper, you bent down your head And, musing, paused a little space, As one who says a silent grace?'
The Jew replied, with solemn air, "I said the Manichæan's prayer. It was his faith,-perhaps is mine,- That life in all its forms is one, And that its secret conduits run Unseen, but in unbroken line, From the great fountain-head divine
Uprising north or southward fly, And flying write upon the sky The biforked letter of the Greeks, As hath been said by Rucellai; All birds that sing or chirp or cry, Even those migratory bands, The minor poets of the air, The plover, peep, and sanderling, That hardly can be said to sing, But pipe along the barren sands,— All these have souls akin to ours; So hath the lovely race of flowers: Thus much I grant, but nothing more. The rusty hinges of a door
Are not alive because they creak; This chimney, with its dreary roar, These rattling windows, do not speak!" "To me they speak," the Jew replied; "And in the sounds that sink and soar, I hear the voices of a tide
That breaks upon an unknown shore!"
Here the Sicilian interfered: "That was your dream, then, as you dozed A moment since, with eyes half-closed, And murmured something in your beard." The Hebrew smiled, and answered, "Nay; Not that, but something very near; Like, and yet not the same, may seem The vision of my waking dream; Before it wholly dies away,
Listen to me, and you shall hear."
KING SOLOMON, before his palace gate At evening, on the pavement tessellate Was walking with a stranger from the East, Arrayed in rich attire as for a feast, The mighty Runjeet-Sing, a learned man, And Rajah of the realms of Hindostan. And as they walked the guest became aware Of a white figure in the twilight air, Gazing intent, as one who with surprise His form and features seemed to recognize; And in a whisper to the king he said: "What is yon shape, that, pallid as the dead, Is watching me, as if he sought to trace In the dim light the features of my face?"
Through man and beast, through grain and grass. It is the Angel men call Azrael,
The king looked, and replied: "I know him well;
Howe'er we struggle, strive, and
From death there can be no escape, And no escape from life, alas!
Because we cannot die, but From one into another shape: It is but into life we die.
"Therefore the Manichæan said This simple prayer on breaking bread, Lest he with hasty hand or knife Might wound the incarcerated life, The soul in things that we call dead: 'I did not reap thee, did not bind thee,
I did not thrash thee, did not grind thee, Nor did I in the oven bake thee! It was not I, it was another
Did these things unto thee, O brother; I only have thee, hold thee, break thee!"" "That birds have souls I can concede," The poet cried, with glowing cheeks; "The flocks that from their beds of reed
'Tis the Death Angel; what hast thou to fear?" And the guest answered: Lest he should come
And speak to me, and take away my breath! Save me from Azrael, save me from death! O king, that hast dominion o'er the wind, Bid it arise and bear me hence to Ind."
The king gazed upward at the cloudless sky, Whispered a word, and raised his hand on high, And lo! the signet-ring of chrysoprase On his uplifted finger seemed to blaze With hidden fire, and rushing from the west There came a mighty wind, and seized the guest And lifted him from earth, and on they passed, His shining garments streaming in the blast, A silken banner o'er the walls upreared, A purple cloud, that gleamed and disappeared. Then said the Angel, smiling: "If this man Be Rajah Runjeet-Sing of Hindostan, Thou hast done well in listening to his prayer; I was upon my way to seek him there.
"O EDREHI, forbear to-night Your ghostly legends of affright, And let the Talmud rest in peace; Spare us your dismal tales of death That almost take away one's breath; So doing, may your tribe increase."
Thus the Sicilian said; then went And on the spinet's rattling keys Played Marianina, like a breeze From Naples and the Southern seas, That brings us the delicious scent Of citron and of orange trees, And memories of soft days of ease At Capri and Amalfi spent.
"Not so," the eager poet said; "At least, not so before I tell The story of my Azrael, An angel mortal as ourselves, Which in an ancient tome I found Upon a convent's dusty shelves,
Chained with an iron chain, and bound In parchment, and with clasps of brass,
While the good friars were singing mass.
"It is a tale of Charlemagne,
When like a thunder-cloud, that lowers And sweeps from mountain-crest to coast, With lightning flaming through its showers, He swept across the Lombard plain, Beleaguering with his warlike train Pavía, the country's pride and boast, The City of the Hundred Towers." Thus heralded the tale began, And thus in sober measure ran.
OLGER the Dane and Desiderio, King of the Lombards, on a lofty tower Stood gazing northward o'er the rolling plain, League after league of harvests, to the foot
Of the snow-crested Alps, and saw approach A mighty army, thronging all the roads That led into the city. And the King Said unto Olger, who had passed his youth As hostage at the court of France, and knew The Emperor's form and face: "Is Charlemagne Among that host?" And Olger answered: "No."
And still the innumerable multitude
Flowed onward and increased, until the King Cried in amazement: "Surely Charlemagne Is coming in the midst of all these knights! And Olger answered slowly: "No; not yet; He will not come so soon. Then much disturbed King Desiderio asked: What shall we do, If he approach with a still greater army? And Olger answered: "When he shall appear, You will behold what manner of man he is; But what will then befall us I know not.
Then came the guard that never knew repose, The Paladins of France; and at the sight The Lombard King o'ercome with terror cried "This must be Charlemagne !" and as before Did Olger answer: "No; not yet, not yet."
And then appeared in panoply complete The Bishops and the Abbots and the Priests Of the imperial chapel, and the Counts; And Desiderio could no more endure The light of day, nor yet encounter death, But sobbed aloud and said: "Let us go down And hide us in the bosom of the earth,
Far from the sight and anger of a foe So terrible as this!" And Olger said: "When you behold the harvests in the fields Shaking with fear, the Po and the Ticino Lashing the city walls with iron waves, Then may you know that Charlemagne is come. And even as he spake, in the northwest, Lo! there uprose a black and threatening cloud, Out of whose bosom flashed the light of arms Upon the people pent up in the city; A light more terrible than any darkness; And Charlemagne appeared; - a Man of Iron !
His helmet was of iron, and his gloves Of iron, and his breastplate and his greaves And tassets were of iron, and his shield. In his left hand he held an iron spear, In his right hand his sword invincible.
The horse he rode on had the strength of iron, And color of iron. All who went before him, Beside him and behind him, his whole host, Were armed with iron, and their hearts within
And threw stones at the Argonauts, Being filled with indiscriminate ire That tangled and perplexed his thoughts; But, like a hospitable host, When strangers landed on the coast, Heated himself red-hot with fire, And hugged them in his arms, and pressed Their bodies to his burning breast.
The poet answered: "No, not thus The legend rose; it sprang at first Out of the hunger and the thirst In all men for the marvellous. And thus it filled and satisfied The imagination of mankind, And this ideal to the mind Was truer than historic fact. Fancy enlarged and multiplied The terrors of the awful name Of Charlemagne, till he became Armipotent in every act,
And, clothed in mystery, appeared Not what men saw, but what they feared.
The Theologian said: "Perchance
Your chronicler in writing this
Had in his mind the Anabasis,
Where Xenophon describes the advance
Of Artaxerxes to the fight;
At first the low gray cloud of dust, And then a blackness o'er the fields As of a passing thunder-gust, Then flash of brazen armor bright, And ranks of men, and spears up-thrust, Bowmen and troops with wicker shields, And cavalry equipped in white, And chariots ranged in front of these With scythes upon their axle-trees."
To this the Student answered: "Well, I also have a tale to tell
Of Charlemagne; a tale that throws A softer light, more tinged with rose, Than your grim apparition cast Upon the darkness of the past. Listen, and hear in English rhyme What the good Monk of Lauresheim Gives as the gossip of his time, In mediæval Latin prose."
WELL pleased all listened to the tale, That drew, the Student said, its pith And marrow from the ancient myth Of some one with an iron flail; Or that portentous Man of Brass Hephaestus made in days of yore, Who stalked about the Cretan shore, And saw the ships appear and pass,
In sooth it was a pleasant sight to see That Saxon monk, with hood and rosary, With inkhorn at his belt, and pen and book, And mingled love and reverence in his look, Or hear the cloister and the court repeat The measured footfalls of his sandaled feet, Or watch him with the pupils of his school, Gentle of speech, but absolute of rule. Among them, always earliest in his place, Was Eginhard, a youth of Frankish race, Whose face was bright with flashes that forerun The splendors of a yet unrisen sun.
To him all things were possible, and seemed Not what he had accomplished, but had dreamed, And what were tasks to others were his play, The pastime of an idle holiday.
Smaragdo, Abbot of St. Michael's, said, With many a shrug and shaking of the head, Surely some demon must possess the lad, Who showed more wit than ever schoolboy had, And learned his Trivium thus without the rod; But Alcuin said it was the grace of God.
Thus he grew up, in Logic point-device, Perfect in Grammar, and in Rhetoric nice; Science of Numbers, Geometric art, And lore of Stars, and Music knew by heart; A Minnesinger, long before the times
Of those who sang their love in Snabian rhymes.
The Emperor, when he heard this good report Of Eginhard much buzzed about the court, Said to himself, "This stripling seems to be Purposely sent into the world for me;
He shall become my scribe, and shall be schooled In all the arts whereby the world is ruled." Thus did the gentle Eginhard attain To honor in the court of Charlemagne ; Became the sovereign's favorite, his right hand, So that his fame was great in all the land, And all men loved him for his modest grace And comeliness of figure and of face. An inmate of the palace, yet recluse, A man of books, yet sacred from abuse Among the armed knights with spur on heel, The tramp of horses and the clang of steel; And as the Emperor promised he was schooled In all the arts by which the world is ruled. But the one art supreme, whose law is fate, The Emperor never dreamed of till too late.
Home from her convent to the palace came The lovely Princess Emma, whose sweet name, Whispered by seneschal or sung by bard, Had often touched the soul of Eginhard. He saw her from his window, as in state She came, by knights attended through the gate; He saw her at the banquet of that day. Fresh as the morn, and beautiful as May; He saw her in the garden, as she strayed Among the flowers of summer with her maid, And said to him, "O Eginhard, disclose The meaning and the mystery of the rose; And trembling he made answer : In good sooth, Its mystery is love, its meaning youth!"
How can I tell the signals and the signs By which one heart another heart divines? How can I tell the many thousand ways By which it keeps the secret it betrays?
O mystery of love! O strange romance! Among the Peers and Paladins of France, Shining in steel, and prancing on gay steeds, Noble by birth, yet nobler by great deeds, The Princess Emma had no words nor looks But for this clerk, this man of thought and books.
The summer passed, the autumn came; the stalks Of lilies blackened in the garden walks;
The leaves fell, russet-golden and blood-red, Love-letters thought the poet fancy-led, Or Jove descending in a shower of gold Into the lap of Danae of old;
For poets cherish many a strange conceit, And love transmutes all nature by its heat.
No more the garden lessons, nor the dark And hurried meetings in the twilight park; But now the studious lamp, and the delights Of firesides in the silent winter nights, And watching from his window hour by hour The light that burned in Princess Emma's tower.
At length one night, while musing by the fire, O'ercome at last by his insane desire,-
For what will reckless love not do and dare?- He crossed the court, and climbed the winding stair,
With some feigned message in the Emperor's
But when he to the lady's presence came He knelt down at her feet until she laid Her hand upon him, like a naked blade, And whispered in his ear: "Arise, Sir Kright, To my heart's level, O my heart's delight."
And there he lingered till the crowing cock, The Alectryon of the farmyard and the flock, Sang his aubade with lusty voice and clear, To tell the sleeping world that dawn was near. And then they parted; but at parting, lo! They saw the palace courtyard white with snow, And, placid as a nun, the moon on high Gazing from cloudy cloisters of the sky. "Alas!" he said, "how hide the fatal line Of footprints leading from thy door to mine, And none returning!" Ah, he little knew What woman's wit, when put to proof, can do!
That night the Emperor, sleepless with the cares And troubles that attend on state affairs, Had risen before the dawn, and musing gazed Into the silent night, as one amazed To see the calm that reigned o'er all supreme, When his own reign was but a troubled dream. The moon lit up the gables capped with snow, And the white roofs, and half the court below, And he beheld a form, that seemed to cower Beneath a burden, come from Emma's tower,- A woman, who upon her shoulders bore Clerk Eginhard to his own private door, And then returned in haste, but still essayed To tread the footprints she herself had made; And as she passed across the lighted space, The Emperor saw his daughter Emma's face!
He started not; he did not speak or moan, But seemed as one who hath been turned to stone;
And stood there like a statue, nor awoke Out of his trance of pain, till morning broke, Till the stars faded, and the moon went down, And o'er the towers and steeples of the town Came the gray daylight; then the sun, who took The empire of the world with sovereign look, Suffusing with a soft and golden glow
All the dead landscape in its shroud of snow, Touching with flame the tapering chapel spires, Windows and roofs, and smoke of household tires, And kindling park and palace as he came; The stork's nest on the chimney seemed in flame. And thus he stood till Eginhard appeared, Demure and modest with his comely beard And flowing flaxen tresses, come to ask, As was his wont, the day's appointed task.
The Emperor looked upon him with a smile, And gently said: "My son, wait yet awhile; This hour my council meets upon some great And very urgent business of the state.
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