Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

OCTOBER, 1746 MR. THOMAS PRINCE loquitur. A fleet with flags arrayed

O gift of God! O perfect day: Whereon shall no man work, but play; Whereon it is enough for me,

Simon Danz has come home again, From cruising about with his buccaneers; He has singed the beard of the King of Spain,

Awake! arise! the hour is late! Angels are knocking at thy door! They are in haste and cannot wait,

This is the place.    Stand still, my steed, Let me review the scene, And summon from the shadowy Past

"A soldier of the Union mustered out," Is the inscription on an unknown grave At Newport News, beside the salt-sea wave,

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers,

I said unto myself, if I were dead, What would befall these children?    What would be Their fate, who now are looking up to me

The sun is set; and in his latest beams Yon little cloud of ashen gray and gold, Slowly upon the amber air unrolled,

"Sir, I should build me a fortification, if I came to live here." --BOSWELL'S Johnson. On the green little isle of Inchkenneth,

When the summer fields are mown, When the birds are fledged and flown, And the dry leaves strew the path;

The day is ending, The night is descending; The marsh is frozen,

Sweet the memory is to me Of a land beyond the sea, Where the waves and mountains meet,

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

Until we meet again!    That is the meaning Of the familiar words, that men repeat At parting in the street.

Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain, With banners, by great gales incessant fanned, Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand,

With what a glory comes and goes the year! The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy

It is autumn; not without, But within me is the cold. Youth and spring are all about;

Dead he lay among his books! The peace of God was in his looks. As the statues in the gloom

I am poor and old and blind; The sun burns me, and the wind Blows through the city gate

FLIGHT THE FIRST . . come i gru van cantando lor lai, Facendo in aer di se lunga riga. -- DANTE

Blind Bartimeus at the gates Of Jericho in darkness waits; He hears the crowd;--he hears a breath

St. Bototlph's Town!    Hither across the plains And fens of Lincolnshire, in garb austere, There came a Saxon monk, and founded here

On sunny slope and beechen swell, The shadowed light of evening fell; And, where the maple's leaf was brown,

RESIGNATION There is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there!

"Build me straight, O worthy Master! Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel, That shall laugh at all disaster,

No sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaks The silence of the summer day, As by the loveliest of all lakes

How much of my young heart, O Spain, Went out to thee in days of yore! What dreams romantic filled my brain,

This song of mine Is a Song of the Vine, To be sung by the glowing embers

From the outskirts of the town Where of old the mile-stone stood. Now a stranger, looking down

Garlands upon his grave, And flowers upon his hearse, And to the tender heart and brave

An old man in a lodge within a park; The chamber walls depicted all around With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and hound.

Come to me, O ye children! For I hear you at your play, And the questions that perplexed me

Sweet chimes! that in the loneliness of night Salute the passing hour, and in the dark And silent chambers of the household mark

I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet

Just above yon sandy bar, As the day grows fainter and dimmer, Lonely and lovely, a single star

I. Solemnly, mournfully, Dealing its dole,

Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom, With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes, Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise,

A wind came up out of the sea, And said, "O mists, make room for me." It hailed the ships, and cried, "Sail on,

In broad daylight, and at noon, Yesterday I saw the moon Sailing high, but faint and white,

Sleep, comrades, sleep and rest On this Field of the Grounded Arms, Where foes no more molest,

As one who, walking in the twilight gloom, Hears round about him voices as it darkens, And seeing not the forms from which they come,

Sweet as the tender fragrance that survives, When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives, Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain,

I Oft have I seen at some cathedral door A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat,

Come, old friend! sit down and listen! From the pitcher, placed between us, How the waters laugh and glisten

Dark is the morning with mist; in the narrow mouth of the harbor Motionless lies the sea, under its curtain of cloud; Dreamily glimmer the sails of ships on the distant horizon,

I Peradventure of old, some bard in Ionian Islands, Walking alone by the sea, hearing the wash of the waves,

Thou ancient oak! whose myriad leaves are loud With sounds of unintelligible speech, Sounds as of surges on a shingly beach,

Under Mount Etna he lies, It is slumber, it is not death; For he struggles at times to arise,

The rising moon has hid the stars; Her level rays, like golden bars, Lie on the landscape green,

Have I dreamed? or was it real, What I saw as in a vision, When to marches hymeneal

This is the forest primeval.    The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,

The shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,

O sweet illusions of Song, That tempt me everywhere, In the lonely fields, and the throng

These are the tales those merry guests Told to each other, well or ill; Like summer birds that lift their crests

Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers, Or solitary mere, Or where the sluggish meadow-brook delivers

Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden,

When the hours of Day are numbered, And the voices of the Night Wake the better soul, that slumbered,

"NAHANT, September 8, 1880, Four o'clock in the morning." Four by the clock! and yet not day;

O faithful, indefatigable tides, That evermore upon God's errands go,-- Now seaward bearing tidings of the land,--

A lovely morning, without the glare of the sun, the sea in great commotion, chafing and foaming. So from the bosom of darkness our days come roaring and gleaming, Chafe and break into foam, sink into darkness again.

Soft through the silent air descend the feathery snow-flakes; White are the distant hills, white are the neighboring fields; Only the marshes are brown, and the river rolling among them

Neglected record of a mind neglected, Unto what "lets and stops" art thou subjected! The day with all its toils and occupations,

TO THE CHILDREN OF CAMBRIDGE Who presented to me on my Seventy-second Birth-day, February 27, 1879, this Chair, made from the Wood of the Village Blacksmith's Chestnut Tree. Am I a king, that I should call my own

By his evening fire the artist Pondered o'er his secret shame; Baffled, weary, and disheartened,

How many lives, made beautiful and sweet By self-devotion and by self-restraint, Whose pleasure is to run without complaint

I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls,

One day, Haroun Al Raschid read A book wherein the poet said:-- "Where are the kings, and where the rest

All houses wherein men have lived and died Are haunted houses.    Through the open doors The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,

MAY 23, 1864 How beautiful it was, that one bright day In the long week of rain!

What phantom is this that appears Through the purple mist of the years, Itself but a mist like these?

As Seleucus narrates, Hermes describes the principles that rank as wholes in two myriads of books; or, as we are informed by Manetho, he perfectly unfolded these principles in three myriads six thousand five hundred and twenty-five volumes. . . . . . . Our ancestors dedicated the inventions of    their wisdom to this deity, inscribing all their own writings with the name of Hermes.--IAMBLICUS. Still through Egypt's desert places

The holiest of all holidays are those Kept by ourselves in silence and apart; The secret anniversaries of the heart,

Christ to the young man said: "Yet one thing more; If thou wouldst perfect be, Sell all thou hast and give it to the poor,

When the dying flame of day Through the chancel shot its ray, Far the glimmering tapers shed

Gaddi mi fece; il Ponte Vecchio sono; Cinquecent' anni gia sull' Arno pianto Il piede, come il suo Michele Santo

In the village churchyard she lies, Dust is in her beautiful eyes, No more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs;

Here lies the gentle humorist, who died In the bright Indian Summer of his fame! A simple stone, with but a date and name,

Becalmed upon the sea of Thought, Still unattained the land it sought, My mind, with loosely-hanging sails,

O traveller, stay thy weary feet; Drink of this fountain, pure and sweet; It flows for rich and poor the same.

No hay pajaros en los nidos de antano. - Spanish Proverb The sun is bright,--the air is clear,

How cold are thy baths, Apollo! Cried the African monarch, the splendid, As down to his death in the hollow

The young Endymion sleeps Endymion's sleep; The shepherd-boy whose tale was left half told! The solemn grove uplifts its shield of gold

Turn, turn, my wheel?    Turn round and round Without a pause, without a sound: So spins the flying world away!

He is dead, the beautiful youth, The heart of honor, the tongue of truth, He, the life and light of us all,

Viswamitra the Magician, By his spells and incantations, Up to Indra's realms elysian

Witlaf, a king of the Saxons, Ere yet his last he breathed, To the merry monks of Croyland

Ye voices, that arose After the Evening's close, And whispered to my restless heart repose!

As the birds come in the Spring, We know not from where; As the stars come at evening

When I compare What I have lost with what I have gained, What I have missed with what attained,

TRAVELLER Why dost thou wildly rush and roar, Mad River, O Mad River?

MAIDEN O weathercock on the village spire, With your golden feathers all on fire,

Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes, In whose orbs a shadow lies Like the dusk in evening skies!

Oft I remember those whom I have known In other days, to whom my heart was led As by a magnet, and who are not dead,

Half of my life is gone, and I have let The years slip from me and have not fulfilled The aspiration of my youth, to build

Yes, the Year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared! Death, with frosty hand and cold,

I pace the sounding sea-beach and behold How the voluminous billows roll and run, Upheaving and subsiding, while the sun

Beautiful valley! through whose verdant meads Unheard the Garigliano glides along;-- The Liris, nurse of rushes and of reeds,

Oh that a Song would sing itself to me Out of the heart of Nature, or the heart Of man, the child of Nature, not of Art,

As a pale phantom with a lamp Ascends some ruin's haunted stair, So glides the moon along the damp

Tempora labuntur, tacitisque senescimus annis, Et fugiunt freno non remorante dies.--OVID, Fastorum, Lib. vi. "O Caesar, we who are about to die

Sadly as some old mediaeval knight Gazed at the arms he could no longer wield, The sword two-handed and the shining shield

Like two cathedral towers these stately pines Uplift their fretted summits tipped with cones; The arch beneath them is not built with stones,

Often I think of the beautiful town That is seated by the sea; Often in thought go up and down

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, Leads by the hand her little child to bed, Half willing, half reluctant to be led,

Into the darkness and the hush of night Slowly the landscape sinks, and fades away, And with it fade the phantoms of the day,

Envoye A M. Agassiz, La Veille De Noel 1864, Avec Un Panier De Vins Divers L'Academie en respect,

In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands. Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song,

What an image of peace and rest Is this little church among its graves! All is so quiet; the troubled breast,

In the Valley of the Vire Still is seen an ancient mill, With its gables quaint and queer,

I lay upon the headland-height, and listened To the incessant sobbing of the sea In caverns under me,

WRITTEN ON REVISITING BRUNSWICK IN THE SUMMER OF 1875 Among the many lives that I have known, None I remember more serene and sweet,

Once into a quiet village, Without haste and without heed, In the golden prime of morning,

Where are the Poets, unto whom belong The Olympian heights; whose singing shafts were sent Straight to the mark, and not from bows half bent,

One Autumn night, in Sudbury town, Across the meadows bare and brown, The windows of the wayside inn

A cold, uninterrupted rain, That washed each southern window-pane, And made a river of the road;

The evening came; the golden vane A moment in the sunset glanced, Then darkened, and then gleamed again,

"E venni dal martirio a questa pace." These words the poet heard in Paradise, Uttered by one who, bravely dying here,

Of Prometheus, how undaunted On Olympus' shining bastions His audacious foot he planted,

How beautiful is the rain! After the dust and heat, In the broad and fiery street,

I see amid the fields of Ayr A ploughman, who, in foul and fair, Sings at his task

A handful of red sand, from the hot clime Of Arab deserts brought, Within this glass becomes the spy of Time,

Have you read in the Talmud of old, In the Legends the Rabbins have told Of the limitless realms of the air,--

Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts, in glad surprise,

When descends on the Atlantic The gigantic Storm-wind of the equinox,

A vision as of crowded city streets, With human life in endless overflow; Thunder of thoroughfares; trumpets that blow

Southward with fleet of ice Sailed the corsair Death; Wild and fast blew the blast,

Lull me to sleep, ye winds, whose fitful sound Seems from some faint Aeolian harp-string caught; Seal up the hundred wakeful eyes of thought

Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare,

Labor with what zeal we will, Something still remains undone, Something uncompleted still

Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest; Home-keeping hearts are happiest, For those that wander they know not where

Nowhere such a devious stream, Save in fancy or in dream, Winding slow through bush and brake

O precious evenings! all too swiftly sped! Leaving us heirs to amplest heritages Of all the best thoughts of the greatest sages,

I stand beneath the tree, whose branches shade Thy western window, Chapel of St. John! And hear its leaves repeat their benison

The summer sun is sinking low; Only the tree-tops redden and glow: Only the weathercock on the spire

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

Take them, O Death! and bear away Whatever thou canst call thine own! Thine image, stamped upon this clay,

PART FIRST PRELUDE THE WAYSIDE INN

I heard a voice, that cried, "Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead!"

I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight

This is the Arsenal.    From floor to ceiling, Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms; But front their silent pipes no anthem pealing

I have read, in some old, marvellous tale, Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of spectres pale

In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown; Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the town. As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood,

In the ancient town of Bruges, In the quaint old Flemish city, As the evening shades descended,

O curfew of the setting sun!    O Bells of Lynn! O requiem of the dying day!    O Bells of Lynn! From the dark belfries of yon cloud-cathedral wafted,

What say the Bells of San Blas To the ships that southward pass From the harbor of Mazatlan?

I stood on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o'er the city,

Burn, O evening hearth, and waken Pleasant visions, as of old! Though the house by winds be shaken,

Once upon Iceland's solitary strand A poet wandered with his book and pen, Seeking some final word, some sweet Amen,

The brooklet came from the mountain, As sang the bard of old, Running with feet of silver

All are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time; Some with massive deeds and great,

RICHARD HENRY DANA In the old churchyard of his native town, And in the ancestral tomb beside the wall,

A gentle boy, with soft and silken locks A dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes, A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,

I have a vague remembrance Of a story, that is told In some ancient Spanish legend

Is it so far from thee Thou canst no longer see, In the Chamber over the Gate,

I What is this I read in history, Full of marvel, full of mystery,

Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations,

The panting City cried to the Sea, "I am faint with heat,--O breathe on me!" And the Sea said, "Lo, I breathe! but my breath

I MILES STANDISH In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims,

In the long, sleepless watches of the night, A gentle face--the face of one long dead-- Looks at me from the wall, where round its head

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, On board of the cumberland, sloop-of-war; And at times from the fortress across the bay

The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward

Nine sisters, beautiful in form and face, Came from their convent on the shining heights Of Pierus, the mountain of delights,

Othere, the old sea-captain, Who dwelt in Helgoland, To King Alfred, the Lover of Truth,

Once the Emperor Charles of Spain, With his swarthy, grave commanders, I forget in what campaign,

"Combien faudrait-il de peaux d'Espagne pour faire un gant de cette grandeur?"    A play upon the words gant, a glove, and Gand, the French for Ghent. On St. Baron's tower, commanding Half of Flanders, his domain,

Lo! in the painted oriel of the West, Whose panes the sunken sun incarnadines, Like a fair lady at her casement, shines

MAY 28, 1857 It was fifty years ago In the pleasant month of May,

Devereux Farm, Near Marblehead We sat within the farm-house old, Whose windows, looking o'er the bay,

Four limpid lakes,--four Naiades Or sylvan deities are these, In flowing robes of azure dressed;

Sweet faces, that from pictured casements lean As from a castle window, looking down On some gay pageant passing through a town,

Torrent of light and river of the air, Along whose bed the glimmering stars are seen Like gold and silver sands in some ravine

Filled is Life's goblet to the brim; And though my eyes with tears are dim, I see its sparkling bubbles swim,

Leafless are the trees; their purple branches Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of coral, Rising silent

She dwells by Great Kenhawa's side, In valleys green and cool; And all her hope and all her pride

I The lights are out, and gone are all the guests That thronging came with merriment and jests

It is the Harvest Moon!    On gilded vanes And roofs of villages, on woodland crests And their aerial neighborhoods of nests

Each heart has its haunted chamber, Where the silent moonlight falls! On the floor are mysterious footsteps,

Warm and still is the summer night, As here by the river's brink I wander; White overhead are the stars, and white

Made from a fetter of Bonnivard, the Prisoner of Chillon; the handle of wood from the Frigate Constitution, and bound with a circlet of gold, inset with three precious stones from Siberia, Ceylon, and Maine. I thought this Pen would arise From the casket where it lies--

How strange it seems!    These Hebrews in their graves, Close by the street of this fair seaport town, Silent beside the never-silent waves,

Saint Augustine! well hast thou said, That of our vices we can frame A ladder, if we will but tread

THE RHYME OF SIR CHRISTOPHER It was Sir Christopher Gardiner, Knight of the Holy Sepulchre,

Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;

Mounted on Kyrat strong and fleet, His chestnut steed with four white feet, Roushan Beg, called Kurroglou,

The night is come, but not too soon; And sinking silently, All silently, the little moon

The rocky ledge runs far into the sea, And on its outer point, some miles away, The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry,

I THE WORKSHOP OF HEPHAESTUS HEPHAESTUS (standing before the statue of Pandora.)

After so long an absence At last we meet again: Does the meeting give us pleasure,

I THE CHALLENGE OF THOR I am the God Thor,

THE BALLAD OF CARMILHAN I At Stralsund, by the Baltic Sea,

THE MOTHER'S GHOST Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade; I myself was young!

Dans les moments de la vie ou la reflexion devient plus calme et plus profonde, ou l'interet et l'avarice parlent moins haut que la raison, dans les instants de chagrin domestique, de maladie, et de peril de mort, les nobles se repentirent de posseder des serfs, comme d'une chose peu agreable a Dieu, qui avait cree tous les hommes a son image.--THIERRY, Conquete de l'Angleterre. In his chamber, weak and dying, Was the Norman baron lying;

I saw, as in a dream sublime, The balance in the hand of Time. O'er East and West its beam impended;

Taddeo Gaddi built me.    I am old, Five centuries old.    I plant my foot of stone Upon the Arno, as St. Michael's own

L'eternite est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit sans cesse ces deux mots seulement dans le silence des tombeaux: "Toujours! jamais!    Jamais! toujours!"--JACQUES BRIDAINE. Somewhat back from the village street

The old house by the lindens Stood silent in the shade, And on the gravelled pathway

In Mather's Magnalia Christi, Of the old colonial time, May be found in prose the legend

JANUARY Janus am I; oldest of potentates; Forward I look, and backward, and below

THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH It was the season, when through all the land The merle and mavis build, and building sing

LADY WENTWORTH. One hundred years ago, and something more, In Queen Street, Portsmouth, at her tavern door,

CHARLEMAGNE Olger the Dane and Desiderio, King of the Lombards, on a lofty tower

O ye dead Poets, who are living still Immortal in your verse, though life be fled, And ye, O living Poets, who are dead

The Slaver in the broad lagoon Lay moored with idle sail; He waited for the rising moon,

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary It rains, and the wind is never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,

There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,

In that desolate land and lone, Where the Big Horn and Yellowstone Roar down their mountain path,

In that building, long and low, With its windows all a-row, Like the port-holes of a hulk,

Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me As I gaze upon the sea! All the old romantic legends,

Up soared the lark into the air, A shaft of song, a winged prayer, As if a soul, released from pain,

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, Apparelled in magnificent attire,

THE BELL OF ATRI At Atri in Abruzzo, a small town Of ancient Roman date, but scant renown,

THE MONK OF CASAL-MAGGIORE Once on a time, some centuries ago, In the hot sunshine two Franciscan friars

In St. Luke's Gospel we are told How Peter in the days of old Was sifted;

God sent his Singers upon earth With songs of sadness and of mirth, That they might touch the hearts of men,

"Speak! speak I thou fearful guest Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armor drest,

In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp The hunted Negro lay; He saw the fire of the midnight camp,

Loud he sang the psalm of David! He, a Negro and enslaved, Sang of Israel's victory,

Beside the ungathered rice he lay, His sickle in his hand; His breast was bare, his matted hair

[Notes from HIAWATHA follow] INTRODUCTION Should you ask me, whence these stories?

On the Mountains of the Prairie, On the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry, Gitche Manito, the mighty,

"Honor be to Mudjekeewis!" Cried the warriors, cried the old men, When he came in triumph homeward

Downward through the evening twilight, In the days that are forgotten, In the unremembered ages,

Out of childhood into manhood Now had grown my Hiawatha, Skilled in all the craft of hunters,

On the shores of Gitche Gumee, Of the shining Big-Sea-Water, Stood Nokomis, the old woman,

Never stoops the soaring vulture On his quarry in the desert, On the sick or wounded bison,

Should you ask me, whence these stories? Whence these legends and traditions, With the odors of the forest

You shall hear how Hiawatha Prayed and fasted in the forest, Not for greater skill in hunting,

Two good friends had Hiawatha, Singled out from all the others, Bound to him in closest union,

"Give me of your bark, O Birch-tree! Of your yellow bark, O Birch-tree! Growing by the rushing river,

Forth upon the Gitche Gumee, On the shining Big-Sea-Water, With his fishing-line of cedar,

"As unto the bow the cord is, So unto the man is woman; Though she bends him, she obeys him,

You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis, How the handsome Yenadizze Danced at Hiawatha's wedding;

Can it be the sun descending O'er the level plain of water? Or the Red Swan floating, flying,

Sing, O Song of Hiawatha, Of the happy days that followed, In the land of the Ojibways,

In those days said Hiawatha, "Lo! how all things fade and perish! From the memory of the old men

In those days the Evil Spirits, All the Manitos of mischief, Fearing Hiawatha's wisdom,

You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis, He, the handsome Yenadizze, Whom the people called the Storm-Fool,

Full of wrath was Hiawatha When he came into the village, Found the people in confusion,

Far and wide among the nations Spread the name and fame of Kwasind; No man dared to strive with Kwasind,

Oh the long and dreary Winter! Oh the cold and cruel Winter! Ever thicker, thicker, thicker

In his lodge beside a river, Close beside a frozen river, Sat an old man, sad and lonely.

By the shore of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, At the doorway of his wigwam,

The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep, And round the pebbly beaches far and wide I heard the first wave of the rising tide

SCANDERBEG The battle is fought and won By King Ladislaus the Hun,

Rabbi Ben Levi, on the Sabbath, read A volume of the Law, in which it said, "No man shall look upon my face and live."

KAMBALU Into the city of Kambalu, By the road that leadeth to Ispahan,

AZRAEL King Solomon, before his palace gate At evening, on the pavement tessellate

DRAMATIS PERSONAE VICTORIAN HYPOLITO                                                Students of Alcala.

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 BARON OF ST. CASTINE Baron Castine of St. Castine Has left his chateau in the Pyrenees,

One summer morning, when the sun was hot, Weary with labor in his garden-plot, On a rude bench beneath his cottage eaves,

THE COBBLER OF HAGENAU I trust that somewhere and somehow You all have heard of Hagenau,

EMMA AND EGINHARD When Alcuin taught the sons of Charlemagne, In the free schools of Aix, how kings should reign,

TORQUEMADA In the heroic days when Ferdinand And Isabella ruled the Spanish land,

THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL "Hads't thou stayed, I must have fled!" That is what the Vision said.

ELIZABETH I "Ah, how short are the days!    How soon the night overtakes us!

Three Kings came riding from far away, Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar; Three Wise Men out of the East were they,

TO JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER Three Silences there are: the first of speech, The second of desire, the third of thought;

The tide rises, the tide falls, The twilight darkens, the curlew calls; Along the sea-sands damp and brown

I saw the long line of the vacant shore, The sea-weed and the shells upon the sand, And the brown rocks left bare on every hand,

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,

I Slowly the hour-hand of the clock moves round; So slowly that no human eye hath power

Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he,

A mist was driving down the British Channel, The day was just begun, And through the window-panes, on floor and panel,

Beware!    The Israelite of old, who tore The lion in his path,--when, poor and blind, He saw the blessed light of heaven no more,

The White Czar is Peter the Great.    Batyushka, Father dear, and Gosudar, Sovereign, are titles the Russian people are fond of giving to the Czar in their popular songs. Dost thou see on the rampart's height That wreath of mist, in the light

See, the fire is sinking low, Dusky red the embers glow, While above them still I cower,

Behold! a giant am I! Aloft here in my tower, With my granite jaws I devour

In Ocean's wide domains, Half buried in the sands, Lie skeletons in chains,

It was the schooner Hesperus, That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughter,

I When I remember them, those friends of mine, Who are no longer here, the noble three,

Dear child! how radiant on thy mother's knee, With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles, Thou gazest at the painted tiles,

Welcome, my old friend, Welcome to a foreign fireside, While the sullen gales of autumn

Flow on, sweet river! like his verse Who lies beneath this sculptured hearse Nor wait beside the churchyard wall

Gloomy and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty Omahas; Gloomy and dark as the driving cloud, whose name thou hast taken! Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through the city's

River! that in silence windest Through the meadows, bright and free, Till at length thy rest thou findest

Thou Royal River, born of sun and shower In chambers purple with the Alpine glow, Wrapped in the spotless ermine of the snow

O lovely river of Yvette! O darling river! like a bride, Some dimpled, bashful, fair Lisette,

The pages of thy book I read, And as I closed each one, My heart, responding, ever said,

'T is late at night, and in the realm of sleep My little lambs are folded like the flocks; From room to room I hear the wakeful clocks

The ceaseless rain is falling fast, And yonder gilded vane, Immovable for three days past,

The twilight is sad and cloudy, The wind blows wild and free, And like the wings of sea-birds

DEDICATION TO G.W.G. With favoring winds, o'er sunlit seas,

White swan of cities, slumbering in thy nest So wonderfully built among the reeds Of the lagoon, that fences thee and feeds,

As one who long hath fled with panting breath Before his foe, bleeding and near to fall, I turn and set my back against the wall,

Under the walls of Monterey At daybreak the bugles began to play, Victor Galbraith!

VITTORIA COLONNA, on the death of her hushand, the Marchese di Pescara, retired to her castle at Ischia (Inarime), and there wrote the Ode upon his death, which gained her the title of Divine. Once more, once more, Inarime, I see thy purple hills!--once more

[Greek quotation] I heard the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls!

[Greek poem here--Euripides.] Pleasant it was, when woods were green, And winds were soft and low,

When Mazarvan the Magician, Journeyed westward through Cathay, Nothing heard he but the praises

Vogelweid the Minnesinger, When he left this world of ours, Laid his body in the cloister,

TO ALFRED TENNYSON Poet! I come to touch thy lance with mine; Not as a knight, who on the listed field

O little feet! that such long years Must wander on through hopes and fears, Must ache and bleed beneath your load;

When winter winds are piercing chill, And through the hawthorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill,

Here in a little rustic hermitage Alfred the Saxon King, Alfred the Great, Postponed the cares of king-craft to translate