Lay extended before them the land of toil and privation : There were the graves of the dead, and the barren waste of the sea-shore, There the familiar fields, the groves of pine, and the meadows; But to their eyes transfigured, it seemed as the Garden of Eden, Filled with the presence of God, whose voice was the sound of the ocean. Soon was their vision disturbed by the noise and stir of departure, Friends coming forth from the house, and impatient of longer delaying, Each with his plan for the day, and the work that was left uncompleted. Then from a stall near at hand, amid exclamations of wonder, Alden the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, so proud of Priscilla, Brought out his snow-white bull, obeying the hand of its master, Led by a cord that was tied to an iron ring in its nostrils, Covered with crimson cloth, and a cushion placed for a saddle. She should not walk, he said, through the dust and heat of the noonday; Nay, she should ride like a queen, not plod along like a peasant. Somewhat alarmed at first, but reassured by the others, Placing her hand on the cushion, her foot in the hand of her husband, Gayly, with joyous laugh, Priscilla mounted her palfrey. "Nothing is wanting now," he said with a smile, "but the distaff; Then you would be in truth my queen, my beautiful Bertha!" Onward the bridal procession now moved to their new habitation, Happy husband and wife, and friends conversing together. Pleasantly murmured the brook, as they crossed the ford in the forest, Pleased with the image that passed, like a dream of love through its bosom, Tremulous, floating in air, o'er the depths of the azure abysses. Down through the golden leaves the sun was pouring his splendors, Gleaming on purple grapes, that, from branches above them suspended, Mingled their odorous breath with the balm of the pine and the fir-tree, Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the valley of Eshcol. Like a picture it seemed of the primitive, pastoral ages, Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling Rebecca and Isaac, Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful always, Love immortal and young in the endless succes sion of lovers..' So through the Plymouth woods passed onward the bridal procession. Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, Theircannon, through the night, f We meet them at the doorway, on the stair, A sense of something moving to and fro. There are more guests at table, than the hosts Invited; the illuminated hall Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts, As silent as the pictures on the wall. The stranger at my fireside cannot see We have no title-deeds to house or lands; The spirit-world around this world of sense Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defi- Wafts through these earthly mists and vapors ance, The sea-coast opposite. dense A vital breath of more ethereal air. And now they roared at drum-beat from their Our little lives are kept in equipoise stations By opposite attractions and desires; These perturbations, this perpetual jar And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light, Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd Into the realm of mystery and night, So from the world of spirits there descends A bridge of light, connecting it with this, O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends, Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss. IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE IN the village churchyard she lies, No more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs ; But their dust is white as hers. Was she a lady of high degree, And foolish pomp of this world of ours? Or was it Christian charity, And lowliness and humility, The richest and rarest of all dowers? Who shall tell us? No one speaks; By those who are sleeping at her side. Hereafter?-And do you think to look To find her failings, faults, and errors? THE EMPEROR'S BIRD'S-NEST.-DAYLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT. THE EMPEROR'S BIRD'S-NEST. ONCE the Emperor Charles of Spain, Some old frontier town of Flanders. Up and down the dreary camp, In great boots of Spanish leather, Striding with a measured tramp, These Hidalgos, dull and damp, Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the weather. Thus as to and fro they went, Over upland and through hollow, Giving their impatience vent, Perched upon the Emperor's tent, In her nest, they spied a swallow. Yes, it was a swallow's nest, Built of clay and hair of horses, Mane, or tail, or dragoon's crest, Found on hedge-rows east and west, After skirmish of the forces. Then an old Hidalgo said, As he twirled his gray mustachio, "Sure this swallow overhead Thinks the Emperor's tent a shed, And the Emperor but a Macho!" Hearing his imperial name Coupled with those words of malice, Half in anger, half in shame, Forth the great campaigner came Slowly from his canvas palace. "Let no hand the bird molest," Said he solemnly, "nor hurt her!" Adding then, by way of jest "Golondrina is my guest, "T is the wife of some deserter ! " Swift as bowstring speeds a shaft, Through the camp was spread the rumor, And the soldiers, as they quaffed Flemish beer at dinner, laughed At the Emperor's pleasant humor. So unharmed and unafraid Sat the swallow still and brooded, Then the army, elsewhere bent, Very curtly, "Leave it standing!" So it stood there all alone, Loosely flapping, torn and tattered, Till the brood was fledged and flown, Singing o'er those walls of stone Which the cannon-shot had shattered. THE TWO ANGELS. Two angels, one of Life and one of Death, Passed o'er our village as the morning broke; The dawn was on their faces, and beneath, The sombre houses hearsed with plumes of smoke. Their attitude and aspect were the same, 169 Alike their features and their robes of white; But one was crowned with amaranth, as with flame, And one with asphodels, like flakes of light. I saw them pause on their celestial way; Then said I, with deep fear and doubt oppressed, "Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray And he who wore the crown of asphodels, shock. I recognized the nameless agony, The terror and the tremor and the pain, That oft before had filled or haunted me, And now returned with threefold strength again. The door I opened to my heavenly guest, And listened, for I thought I heard God's voice; And, knowing whatsoe'er he sent was best, Then with a smile, that filled the house with light, "My errand is not Death, but Life," he said; And ere I answered, passing out of sight, On his celestial embassy he sped. "T was at thy door, O friend! and not at mine, The angel with the amaranthine wreath, Pausing, descended, and with voice divine, Whispered a word that had a sound like Death. Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, A shadow on those features fair and thin; And softly, from that hushed and darkened room, Two angels issued, where but one went in. All is of God! If he but wave his hand, Lo! he looks back from the departing cloud. Angels of Life and Death alike are his; DAYLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT. IN broad daylight, and at noon, In broad daylight, yesterday, I read a Poet's mystic lay; And it seemed to me at most As a phantom, or a ghost. But at length the feverish day 170 THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPORT.-OLIVER BASSELIN. peace; Then added, in the certainty of faith, Closed are the portals of their Synagogue, In the grand dialect the Prophets spake. Gone are the living, but the dead remain, Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green. How came they here? What burst of Christian hate, What persecution, merciless and blind, Drove o'er the sea-that desert desolate These Ishmaels and Hagars of mankind? Pride and humiliation hand in hand Walked with them through the world where'er they went; Trampled and beaten were they as the sand, For in the background figures vague and vast And thus forever with reverted look The mystic volume of the world they read, Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew book, Till life became a Legend of the Dead. But ah! what once has been shall be no more! The groaning earth in travail and in pain Brings forth its races, but does not restore, And the dead nations never rise again. Of soaring higher Stirred or fluttered in his breast. True, his songs were not divine; Were not songs of that high art, Which, as winds do in the pine, Find an answer in each heart; But the mirth Of this green earth Laughed and revelled in his line. From the alehouse and the inn, |