FAMOUS RIDES, SELECTIONS FROM SHAKESPEARE
AND OTHER POETS, AND STUDIES IN RHYTHM

    "We live in deeds, not years, in thoughts, not breaths;
    In feelings, not in figures on a dial."

--PHILIP JAMES BAILEY.

    He said to his friend: "If the British march
    By land or sea from the town tonight,
    Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch
    Of the North Church tower, as a signal-light,--
    One if by land, and two if by sea;
    And I on the opposite shore will be,
    Ready to ride and spread the alarm
    Through every Middlesex village and farm,
    For the country-folk to be up and to arm."

    Then he said "good night," and with muffled oar
    Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
    Just as the moon rose over the bay,
    Where, swinging wide at her moorings, lay
    The Somerset, British man-of-war:
    A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
    Across the moon, like a prison-bar,
    And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
    By its own reflection in the tide.

    Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
    Wanders and watches with eager ears,
    Till in the silence around him he hears
    The muster of men at the barrack-door,
    The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
    And the measured tread of the grenadiers
    Marching down to their boats on the shore.

    Then he climbed to the tower of the church,
    Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
    To the belfry-chamber overhead,
    And startled the pigeons from their perch
    On the sombre rafters, that round him made
    Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
    Up the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
    To the highest window in the wall,
    Where he paused to listen and look down
    A moment on the roofs of the town,
    And the moonlight flowing over all.

    Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead
    In their night-encampment on the hill,
    Wrapped in silence so deep and still,
    That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
    The watchful night-wind, as it went
    Creeping along from tent to tent,
    And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
    A moment only he feels the spell
    Of the place and the hour, the secret dread
    Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
    For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
    On a shadowy something far away,
    Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
    A line of black, that bends and floats
    On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

    Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
    Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride,
    On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
    Now he patted his horse's side,
    Now gazed at the landscape far and near,
    Then impetuous stamped the earth,
    And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
    But mostly he watched with eager search
    The belfry-tower of the old North Church,
    As it rose above the graves on the hill,
    Lonely, and spectral, and sombre, and still.
    And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height,
    A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
    He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
    But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
    A second lamp in the belfry burns!

    A hurry of hoofs in a village-street,
    A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
    And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
    Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
    That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
    The fate of a nation was riding that night;
    And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
    Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

    He has left the village and mounted the steep,
    And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
    Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
    And under the alders, that skirt its edge,
    Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
    Is heard the tramp of the steed as he rides.

    It was twelve by the village-clock
    When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
    He heard the crowing of the cock,
    And the barking of the farmer's dog,
    And felt the damp of the river-fog
    That rises after the sun goes down.

    It was one by the village-clock
    When he galloped into Lexington.
    He saw the gilded weathercock
    Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
    And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
    Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
    As if they already stood aghast
    At the bloody work they would look upon.

    It was two by the village-clock
    When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
    He heard the bleating of the flock,
    And the twitter of birds among the trees,
    And felt the breath of the morning-breeze
    Blowing over the meadows brown.
    And one was safe and asleep in his bed
    Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
    Who that day would be lying dead,
    Pierced by a British musket-ball.

    You know the rest. In the books you have read
    How the British regulars fired and fled,--
    How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
    From behind each fence and farmyard-wall,
    Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
    Then crossing the fields to emerge again
    Under the trees at the turn of the road,
    And only pausing to fire and load.

    So through the night rode Paul Revere;
    And so through the night went his cry of alarm
    To every Middlesex village and farm,--
    A cry of defiance, and not of fear,--
    A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
    And a word that shall echo forevermore!
    For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
    Through all our history, to the last,
    In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
    The people will waken and listen to hear
    The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
    And the midnight-message of Paul Revere.

HELPS TO STUDY.

Notes and Questions.

What message did Paul Revere bear?

Read an account of the battle of Lexington and observe how nearly this poem is true to history.

Who were John Hancock and Samuel Adams?

What does the second stanza tell you? The seventh stanza?

Does this poem call your attention chiefly to the horse, the rider, or the message?

Sketch a map locating Boston, Charlestown, Medford, Lexington, Concord.

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

    "the fate of a nation was riding that night"
    "gaze at him with a spectral glare"
    "the spark struck out by that steed in his flight
    kindled the land into flame with its heat"
    "sombre"
    "red-coats"
    "fearless and fleet"

    Such was the Kyrat's wondrous speed,
    Never yet could any steed
        Reach the dust-cloud in his course.
    More than maiden, more than wife,
    More than gold and next to life
        Roushan the Robber loved his horse.

    In the land that lies beyond
    Erzeroum and Trebizond,
        Garden-girt, his fortress stood;
    Plundered khan, or caravan
    Journeying north from Koordistan,
        Gave him wealth and wine and food.

    Seven hundred and fourscore
    Men at arms his livery wore,
        Did his bidding night and day;
    Now, through regions all unknown,
    He was wandering, lost, alone,
        Seeking, without guide, his way.

    Suddenly the pathway ends,
    Sheer the precipice descends,
        Loud the torrent roars unseen;
    Thirty feet from side to side
    Yawns the chasm; on air must ride
        He who crosses this ravine.

    Following close in his pursuit,
    At the precipice's foot
        Reyhan the Arab of Orfah
    Halted with his hundred men,
    Shouting upward from the glen,
        "La IllÁh ilia AllÁh!"

    Gently Roushan Beg caressed
    Kyrat's forehead, neck and breast;
        Kissed him upon both his eyes,
    Sang to him in his wild way,
    As upon the topmost spray
        Sings a bird before it flies.

    "O my Kyrat, O my steed,
    Bound and slender as a reed,
        Carry me this peril through!
    Satin housings shall be thine,
    Shoes of gold, O Kyrat mine,
        O thou soul of Kurroglou!

    "Soft thy skin as silken skein,
    Soft as woman's hair thy mane,
        Tender are thine eyes and true;
    All thy hoofs like ivory shine,
    Polished bright; O life of mine,
        Leap, and rescue Kurroglou!"

    Kyrat, then, the strong and fleet,
    Drew together his four white feet,
        Paused a moment on the verge,
    Measured with his eye the space,
    And into the air's embrace
        Leaped as leaps the ocean surge.

    As the ocean surge o'er sand
    Bears a swimmer safe to land,
        Kyrat safe his rider bore;
    Rattling down the deep abyss
    Fragments of the precipice
        Rolled like pebbles on a shore.

    Roushan's tasseled cap of red
    Trembled not upon his head;
        Careless sat he and upright;
    Neither hand nor bridle shook,
    Nor his head he turned to look,
        As he galloped out of sight.

    Flash of harness in the air,
    Seen a moment, like the glare
        Of a sword drawn from its sheath;
    Thus the phantom horseman passed,
    And the shadow that he cast
        Leaped the cataract underneath.

    Reyhan the Arab held his breath
    While this vision of life and death
        Passed above him. "Allahu!"
    Cried he. "In all Koordistan
    Lives there not so brave a man
        As this Robber Kurroglou!"

HELPS TO STUDY.

Notes and Questions.

What does the first stanza tell?

The second?

What is the purpose of the fifth stanza?

What comparison is found in the seventh stanza? In the eighth? In the ninth?

What do we mean by "figure of speech?" Illustrate.

State in your own words the thought in the eleventh stanza.

In next to the last stanza give the meaning of the last three lines.

What lesson of heroism does this poem give you?

Whom should you call the hero of this tale?

Who is Allah? Where is Koordistan?

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

    "phantom"
    "verge"
    "caravan"
    "abyss"
    "garden-girt"
    "cataract"

    'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase;
        First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville;
            Close on him fled, great and small,
            Twenty-two good ships in all;
    And they signalled to the place,
    "Help the winners of a race!
        Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick--or, quicker still,
        Here's the English can and will!"

    Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board;
        "Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they:
        "Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored,--
    Shall the "Formidable" here, with her twelve and eighty guns,
        Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way,
    Trust to enter--where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons,
            And with flow at full beside?
            Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide.
        Reach the mooring? Rather say,
    While rock stands or water runs,
        Not a ship will leave the bay!"

    Then was called a council straight.
    Brief and bitter the debate:
    "Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow
    All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow,
    For a prize to Plymouth Sound? Better run the ships aground!"
        (Ended Damfreville his speech).
    "Not a minute more to wait!
        Let the captains all and each
        Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach!
    France must undergo her fate.

    "Give the word!" But no such word
    Was ever spoke or heard:
        For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck, amid all these,--
    A captain? a lieutenant? a mate,--first, second, third?
            No such man of mark, and meet
            With his betters to compete!
            But a simple Breton sailor, pressed by Tourville for the fleet,
        A poor coasting-pilot, he,---HervÉ Riel, the Croisickese.

    And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cried HervÉ Riel.
        "Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues?
    Talk to me of rocks and shoals?--me, who took the soundings, tell
    On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell,
        'Twixt the offing here and GrÈve, where the river disembogues?
    Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for?
            Morn and eve, night and day,
            Have I piloted your bay,
    Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor.
        Burn the fleet, and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues!
        Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me, there's way!
    Only let me lead the line,
        Have the biggest ship to steer,
        Get this Formidable clear,
    Make the others follow mine,
    And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well,
        Right to Solidor past GrÈve,
            And there lay them safe and sound;
        And if one ship misbehave,--
            Keel so much as grate the ground,
    Why, I've nothing but my life,--here's my head!" cries HervÉ Riel.

    Not a minute more to wait.
    "Steer us in, then, small and great!
            Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief.
    Captains, give the sailor place!
            He is Admiral, in brief.
    Still the north-wind, by God's grace!
    See the noble fellow's face
    As the big ship, with a bound,
    Clears the entry like a hound,
    Keeps the passage, as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound!
        See, safe thro' shoal and rock,
        How they follow in a flock,
    Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground,
        Not a spar that comes to grief!
    The peril, see, is past.
    All are harbored to the last,
    And just as HervÉ Riel hollas "Anchor!" sure as fate,
    Up the English come,--too late!

    So, the storm subsides to calm:
    They see the green trees wave
        On the heights o'erlooking GrÈve.
    Hearts that bled are stanched with balm.
    "Just our rapture to enhance,
            Let the English rake the bay,
    Gnash their teeth and glare askance
            As they cannonade away!
    'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!"
    How hope succeeds despair on each captain's countenance!
    Out burst all with one accord,
            "This is paradise for hell!
        Let France, let France's king,
        Thank the man that did the thing!"
    What a shout, and all one word,
          "HervÉ Riel!"
    As he stepped in front once more;
        Not a symptom of surprise
        In the frank blue Breton eyes,--
    Just the same man as before.

    Then said Damfreville, "My friend,
    I must speak out at the end,
        Though I find the speaking hard;
    Praise is deeper than the lips;
    You have saved the king his ships;
        You must name your own reward.
    Faith, our sun was near eclipse!
    Demand whate'er you will,
    France remains your debtor still.
    Ask to heart's content, and have! or my name's not Damfreville."

    Then a beam of fun outbroke
    On the bearded mouth that spoke,
        As the honest heart laughed through
        Those frank eyes of Breton blue:--
    "Since I needs must say my say,
        Since on board the duty's done,
        And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run!
    Since 'tis ask and have, I may--
        Since the others go ashore--
    Come! A good whole holiday!
        Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!"
        That he asked and that he got,--nothing more.

    Name and deed alike are lost:
    Not a pillar nor a post
        In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell;
    Not a head in white and black
        On a single fishing-smack,
    In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack
        All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell.
    Go to Paris: rank on rank
        Search the heroes flung pell-mell
    On the Louvre, face and flank!
        You shall look long enough ere you come to HervÉ Riel.
    So, for better and for worse, HervÉ Riel, accept my verse!
    In my verse, HervÉ Riel, do thou once more
    Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore!

HELPS TO STUDY.

Notes and Questions.

Find on your map: Saint Malo, le Croisic (St. Croisic), Plymouth Sound, Paris.

What forfeit did HervÉ Riel propose in case he failed to pilot the ships safely in?

What ships were seeking harbor?

Who were the "porpoises" and who the "sharks"?

What reward did he claim?

What comparison is found in the first stanza?

What do stanzas three and four tell?

In what way is the hero's memory perpetuated?

The rhythm gives spirit to the poem. Which lines or stanzas are most spirited?

What line gives the key-note to HervÉ Riel's character?

Contrast HervÉ Riel with the local pilots.

Saint Malo--noted for its high tides.

Rance--name of a river.

The Hogue--a cape on the French coast.

Malouins--residents of Saint Malo.

Tourville--the French admiral.

GrÈve--name given the beach.

Solidor--the old fortress.

Belle Aurore--the dawn.

Croisickese--inhabitants of Croisie.

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

    "Worse than fifty Hogues"
    "Clears the entry like a hound"
    "Just the same man as before"
    "He is Admiral, in brief"
    "Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound"
    "Search the heroes flung pell-mell on the Louvre, face and flank"
    "pressed"
    "disembogues"
    "rampired"
    "bore the bell"

        O, hark! O, hear! how thin and clear,
            And thinner, clearer, farther going!
        O, sweet and far from cliff and scar,
            The horns of Elfland, faintly blowing!
    Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying;
    Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

        O, love, they die in yon rich sky;
            They faint on hill or field or river.
        Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
            And grow forever and forever.
    Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying;
    And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

HELPS TO STUDY.

Notes and Questions.

Why does the poet use "splendor" instead of "sun-set," and "summits" instead of "mountains"?

Line 2--What is meant by "old in story"?

Line 3--Why does the poet use "shakes"?

Line l3--To what does "they" relate?

Line l5--Explain.

Line l5--Why does the poet use "roll"?

Line l6--They "die" and "faint" while "our echoes" "roll" and "grow." Note that "grow" is the important word.

Note the refrain and the changes in its use; in the first stanza--the bugle; in the second--the echo; in the third--the spiritual echo.

Point out lines that have rhyme within themselves.

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

    "wild echoes"
    "cliff and scar"
    "horns of Elfland"
    "rich sky"
    "purple glens"

    By thirty hills I hurry down,
        Or slip between the ridges,
    By twenty thorps, a little town,
        And half a hundred bridges,

    Till last by Philip's farm I flow
        To join the brimming river,
    For men may come and men may go,
        But I go on forever.

    I chatter over stony ways,
        In little sharps and trebles;
    I bubble into eddying bays,
        I babble on the pebbles.

    With many a curve my banks I fret
        By many a field and fallow,
    And many a fairy foreland set
        With willow-weed and mallow.

    I chatter, chatter, as I flow
        To join the brimming river,
    For men may come and men may go,
        But I go on forever.

    I wind about, and in and out,
        With here a blossom sailing,
    And here and there a lusty trout,
        And here and there a grayling.

    And here and there a foamy flake
        Upon me, as I travel
    With many a silvery water-break
        Above the golden gravel,

    And draw them all along, and flow
        To join the brimming river,
    For men may come and men may go,
        But I go on forever.

    I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
        I slide by hazel covers;
    I move the sweet forget-me-nots
        That grow for happy lovers.

    I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
        Among my skimming swallows;
    I make the netted sunbeams dance
        Against my sandy shallows,

    I murmur under moon and stars
        In brambly wildernesses;
    I linger by my shingly bars,
        I loiter round my cresses;

    And out again I curve and flow
        To join the brimming river,
    For men may come and men may go,
        But I go on forever.

HELPS TO STUDY.

Notes and Questions.

These stanzas are part of a longer poem called "The Brook."

In this poem Tennyson personifies the brook. Why?

In what lines do the words and the rhythm suggest the sound of the brook?

Which lines do this most successfully?

Point out words that seem to you especially appropriate in giving the thought.

Where in the poem do we find a meaning for the following lines:
    "Oh! of all the songs sung
    No songs are so sweet
    As the songs with refrains
    Which repeat and repeat."

How does the repetition of "chatter" influence the melody of the first line in the sixth stanza?

How does it affect the thought?

Find another place in the poem where an expression is repeated.

Was this done for the sake of the rhythm, or the thought, or for both?

Alliteration is the repetition of the same letter or sound at the beginning of two or more words in close succession.

Find lines in which alliteration is used e. g. "sudden sally," "field and fallow," etc. What does this add to the poem?

Indicate the rhythm of the first four lines by placing them in these curves:
  _______    _______    _______    _______
/                \/                \/                \/                \

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

    "coot and hern" (heron)
    "bicker"
    "thorps"
    "fairy foreland"
    "willow weed and mallow"
    "grayling"
    "water-break"
    "covers"
    "brambly"
    "shingly bars"
    "eddying"
    "fallow"
    "babble"
    "cresses"
    "brimming"
    "sharps and trebles"
    "skimming swallows"
    "netted sunbeams"

        All down the hills of Habersham,
        All through the valleys of Hall,
    The rushes cried, "Abide, abide,"
    The wilful water-weeds held me thrall,
    The laving laurel turned my tide,
    The ferns and the fondling grass said, "Stay,"
    The dewberry dipped for to work delay,
    And the little reeds sighed, "Abide, abide,"
        Here in the hills of Habersham,
        Here in the valleys of Hall.

        High o'er the hills of Habersham,
        Veiling the valleys of Hall,
    The hickory told me manifold
    Fair tales of shade; the poplar tall
    Wrought me her shadowy self to hold;
    The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine,
    Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign,
        Said: "Pass not so cold, these manifold
        Deep shades of the hills of Habersham,
        These glades in the valleys of Hall."

        And oft in the hills of Habersham,
        And oft in the valleys of Hall,
    The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook stone
    Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl;
    And many a luminous jewel lone
    (Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist,
    Ruby, garnet, or amethyst)
    Made lures with the lights of streaming stone
        In the clefts of the hills of Habersham,
        In the beds of the valleys of Hall.

        But oh! not the hills of Habersham,
        And oh! not the valleys of Hall
    Avail; I am fain for to water the plain.
    Downward the voices of Duty call;
    Downward to toil and be mixed with the main.
    The dry fields burn and the mills are to turn,
    And a myriad flowers mortally yearn,
    And the lordly main from beyond the plain
        Calls o'er the hills of Habersham,
        Calls through the valleys of Hall.

HELPS TO STUDY.

Biographical and Historical: The South has given us two most melodious singers, Poe and Lanier. When only nineteen Sidney Lanier enlisted in the Confederate army, and the close of the war found him broken in health, with little else in the world than a brave wife and a brave heart. When his health permitted he played the flute in an orchestra in Baltimore. The rhythm, the rhyme and the melodious words of his poetry all show him the passionate lover of music that he was. Among his prose writings, "The Boy's Froissart" and "The Boy's King Arthur" are of especial interest to young readers.

Notes and Questions.

Find the Chattahoochee river on your map with its source in the "hills of Habersham" and its course through the "valleys of Hall."

Compare this poem with Tennyson's "The Brook."

What is peculiar in the phrases: "run the rapid," "flee from folly," "wilful waterweeds," "loving laurel," etc.

Find alliteration in other lines.

What is added to the poem by alliteration?

Notice the rhythm in the third line of the first stanza.

What is the peculiarity of the eighth line of the first stanza?

Find lines in the other stanzas which contain rhymes. Notice the last word in each of these lines. What two things have you found out?

Lanier believed that poetry is a kind of music. Does the rhythm in this poem sustain this definition?

Point out lines that are especially musical and pleasing.

Habersham, Hall--Counties in northern Georgia.

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

    "laving laurel"
    "fondling grass"
    "friendly brawl"
    "made lures"
    "lordly main"
    "run the rapid"
    "leap the fall"
    "hurry amain"
    "veiling the valleys"
    "flickering meaning"
    "the mills are to turn"
    "I am fain for to water the plain"

    From its sources, which well
        In the tarn on the fell;
    From its fountains
        In the mountains,
    Its rills and its gills;
    Through moss and through brake,
        It runs and it creeps
        For a while, till it sleeps
    In its own little lake.
    And thence, at departing,
    Awakening and starting,
    It runs through the reeds,
    And away it proceeds,
    Through meadow and glade,
    In sun and in shade,
    And through the wood shelter,
        Among crags in its flurry,
    Helter-skelter,
        Hurry-skurry.
    Here it comes sparkling,
    And there it lies darkling;
    Now smoking and frothing
    In tumult and wrath in,
    Till, in this rapid race
        On which it is bent,
    It reaches the place
        Of its steep descent.

        The cataract strong
        Then plunges along,
        Striking and raging,
        As if a war waging
    Its caverns and rocks among;
        Rising and leaping,
        Sinking and creeping,
        Swelling and sweeping,
        Showering and springing,
        Flying and flinging,
        Writhing and ringing,
        Eddying and whisking,
        Spouting and frisking,
        Turning and twisting,
        Around and around
        With endless rebound;
        Smiting and fighting,
        A sight to delight in;
        Confounding, astounding,
    Dizzying, and deafening the ear with its sound,

        Collecting, projecting,
        Receding and speeding,
        And shocking and rocking,
        And darting and parting,
        And threading and spreading,
        And whizzing and hissing,
        And dripping and skipping,
        And hitting and splitting,
        And shining and twining,
        And rattling and battling,
        And shaking and quaking,
        And pouring and roaring,
        And waving and raving,
        And tossing and crossing,
        And flowing and going,
        And running and stunning,
        And foaming and roaming,
        And dinning and spinning,
        And dropping and hopping,
        And working and jerking,
        And guggling and struggling,
        And heaving and cleaving,
        And moaning and groaning,
        And glittering and frittering,
        And gathering and feathering,
        And whitening and brightening,
        And quivering and shivering,
        And hurrying and skurrying,
        And thundering and floundering;

    Dividing and gliding and sliding,
    And falling and brawling and sprawling,
    And driving and riving and striving,
    And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
    And sounding and bounding and rounding,
    And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
    And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,
    And chattering and battering and shattering;
    Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
    Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,
    Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,
    Recoiling, turmoiling, and toiling and boiling,
    And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,
    And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
    And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
    And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
    And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping.
    And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;
    And so never ending, but always descending,
    Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending,
        All at once, and all o'er, with a mighty uproar:
        And this way the water comes down at Lodore.

HELPS TO STUDY.

Biographical: Robert Southey, 1774-1843, was a great English poet. In 1813 he was made poet laureate.

Notes and Questions.

Who was "laureate"? What is it to be "laureate"?

Who was the king to whom Southey was poet-laureate?

To whom beside the king does he say he is laureate?

What do you think he means by this?

Find this cataract on your map (Derwent River in Cumberland). What is a cataract? Have you ever seen one?

Find changes in rhythm as the stream advances.

Where in the poem does Southey first use lines in which two words rhyme? In which three words rhyme?

Why does the poet use all these rhymes?

Compare the first and second stanzas as to rate.

Point out lines that are especially pleasing to you.

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

    "cataract"
    "tarn"
    "brake"
    "glade"
    "helter-skelter"
    "hurry-skurry"
    "vocation"
    "recreation"
    "fell"

        Hear the mellow wedding-bells,
                    Golden bells!
    What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
        Through the balmy air of night
        How they ring out their delight!
            From the molten-golden notes,
                And all in tune,
            What a liquid ditty floats
    To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
                    On the moon!
        Oh, from out the sounding cells
    What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
                    How it swells!
                    How it dwells
            On the Future! how it tells
            Of the rapture that impels
        To the swinging and the ringing
            Of the bells, bells, bells--
                    Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
                            Bells, bells, bells--
    To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

                    Hear the loud alarum bells--
                            Brazen bells!
    What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
                In the startled ear of night
                How they scream out their affright!
                    Too much horrified to speak,
                    They can only shriek, shriek,
                            Out of tune,
    In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
    In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
                    Leaping higher, higher, higher,
                    With a desperate desire,
                            And a resolute endeavor,
                            Now--now to sit or never,
                    By the side of the pale-faced moon.
                            Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
                            What a tale their terror tells
                                  Of despair!
                    How they clang, and clash, and roar!
                    What a horror they outpour
                On the bosom of the palpitating air!
                        Yet the ear it fully knows,
                                  By the twanging
                                  And the clanging,
                        How the danger ebbs and flows;
                    Yet the ear distinctly tells,
                                  In the jangling,
                                  And the wrangling,
                    How the danger sinks and swells,
    By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells--
                                        Of the bells--
                    Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
                                        Bells, bells, bells--
    In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!

            Hear the tolling of the bells--
                Iron bells!
    What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
        In the silence of the night,
        How we shiver with affright
    At the melancholy menace of their tone!
        For every sound that floats
        From the rust within their throats
                Is a groan.
        And the people--ah, the people--
        They that dwell up in the steeple,
                All alone,
        And who tolling, tolling, tolling,
            In that muffled monotone,
        Feel a glory in so rolling
            On the human heart a stone--
        They are neither man nor woman--
        They are neither brute nor human--
                They are Ghouls;
        And their king it is who tolls;
        And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
                Rolls,
            A paean from the bells!
        And his merry bosom swells
            With the paean of the bells!
        And he dances, and he yells;
            Keeping time, time, time,
            In a sort of Runic rhyme,
        To the paean of the bells--
                Of the bells:
        Keeping time, time, time,
        In a sort of Runic rhyme,
            To the throbbing of the bells--
                Of the bells, bells, bells--
            To the sobbing of the bells;
        Keeping time, time, time,
            As he knells, knells, knells,
            In a happy Runic rhyme,
            To the rolling of the bells--
                      Of the bells, bells, bells--
              To the tolling of the bells,
                  Of the bells, bells, bells, bells--
                        Bells, bells, bells--
        To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

HELPS TO STUDY.

Biographical and Historical: Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston on January 19th, 1809. Both his parents were members of a theatrical troupe then playing in Boston. He was left an orphan at the age of three years, and was adopted by a wealthy Virginia planter and by him educated in England and elsewhere. Owing to his erratic habits, Poe's foster-father disowned him, and after that life for him was a constant battle with poverty. His prose tales abound in adventure, allegory, and the supernatural. His poetry is full of imagery, beauty, and melody.

Notes and Questions.

What kinds of bells does the poet seek to reproduce the sound of?

Which bells has he described best?

Point out words particularly suited to express the sound they describe.

Which lines are especially musical and pleasing?

What can you say of the fire-bells of today?

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

    "euphony"
    "tintinnabulation"
    "expostulation"
    "Runic"
    "crystalline"
    "palpitating"

    I was a child and she was a child,
        In this kingdom by the sea:
    But we loved with a love that was more than love--
        I and my Annabel Lee;
    With a love that the wingÈd seraphs of heaven
        Coveted her and me.

    And this was the reason that, long ago,
        In this kingdom by the sea,
    A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
        My beautiful Annabel Lee;
    So that her highborn kinsmen came
        And bore her away from me,
    To shut her up in a sepulchre
        In this kingdom by the sea.

    The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
        Went envying her and me--
    Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know,
        In this kingdom by the sea)
    That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
        Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

    But our love it was stronger by far than the love
        Of those who were older than we--
        Of many far wiser than we--
    And neither the angels in heaven above,
        Nor the demons down under the sea,
    Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
        Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:

    For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
        Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
    And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
        Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
    And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
    Of my darling,--my darling,--my life and my bride,
        In the sepulchre there by the sea,
        In her tomb by the sounding sea.

HELPS TO STUDY.

Notes and Questions.

Like "The Bells," this poem is musical and the words are chosen with reference to this quality.

Notice that the repetition of the word "many" adds to the music of the first line.

Find other lines in which a word is repeated for the sake of melody.

Find lines in which rhymes occur.

Mention lines that are especially pleasing to you.

What reason is given for the death of Annabel Lee?

Why did the angels "covet" and "envy" the lovers?

How strong was this love?

Why does not the lover feel separated from Annabel Lee?

Do you like this poem? Why?

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

    "winged seraphs"
    "sounding sea"
    "sepulchre"
    "highborn kinsmen"
    "coveted"
    "envying"

HELPS TO STUDY.

Biographical: Edward Rowland Sill was born in Connecticut in 1841. He graduated at Yale and lived most of his life in California, being for some years professor of English language and literature at the State University. Sill was a true poet, but the whole of his literary output is contained in two slender volumes. His poems are noted for their compressed thought. The selection here given shows this quality.

Notes and Questions.

What do you learn from this poem?

Where was the craven when he decided his sword was useless?

What word shows that he was there of his own choice?

What kind of sword had the craven?

What words tell you that he was greatly needed in the thick of the conflict?

What kind of sword had the king's son?

How long did the king's son look at the discarded sword before using it?

If the battle represents life, and the craven and the king's son are types of the people in the world, what do you think the swords represent?

Why is this poem called "Opportunity"?

Can you think of another title which might be given to it?

Such a story as this is called an allegory.

"furious"--What is a furious battle?

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

    "craven"
    "bestead"
    "hung along the battle's edge"
    "shocked"
    "hemmed by foes"

                  Higher still and higher
                      From the earth thou springest
                  Like a cloud of fire;
                      The blue deep thou wingest
    And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

                  In the golden lightning
                      Of the sunken sun,
                  O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
                      Thou dost float and run;
    Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

                  The pale purple even
                      Melts around thy flight;
                  Like a star of heaven,
                      In the broad daylight
    Thou art unseen,--but yet I hear thy shrill delight,

                  Keen as are the arrows
                      Of that silver sphere,
                  Whose intense lamp narrows
                      In the white dawn clear
    Until we hardly see--we feel that it is there.

                  All the earth and air
                      With thy voice is loud,
                  As, when Night is bare,
                      From one lonely cloud
    The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is overflowed.

                  What thou art we know not;
                      What is most like thee?
                  From rainbow clouds there flow not
                      Drops so bright to see
    As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

                  Like a Poet hidden
                      In the light of thought,
                  Singing hymns unbidden
                      Till the world is wrought
    To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:

                  Like a high-born maiden
                      In a palace tower,
                  Soothing her love-laden
                      Soul in secret hour
    With music sweet as love,--which overflows her bower:

                  Like a glow-worm golden
                      In a dell of dew,
                  Scattering unbeholden
                      Its aËrial hue
    Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view:

                  Like a rose embowered
                      In its own green leaves,
                  By warm winds deflowered,
                      Till the scent it give
    Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves:

                  Sound of vernal showers
                      On the twinkling grass,
                  Bain-awakened flowers,
                      All that ever was
    Joyous and clear and fresh, thy music doth surpass,

                  Teach us, Sprite or Bird,
                      What sweet thoughts are thine;
                  I have never heard
                      Praise of love or wine
    That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

                  Chorus Hymeneal,
                      Or triumphal chaunt,
                  Matched with thine, would be all
                      But an empty vaunt,
    A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

                  What objects are the fountains
                      Of thy happy strain?
                  What fields or waves or mountains?
                      What shapes of sky or plain?
    What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

                  With thy clear keen joyance
                      Languor cannot be;
                  Shadow of annoyance
                      Never came near thee;
    Thou lovest--but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

                  Waking or asleep
                      Thou of death must deem
                  Things more true and deep
                      Than we mortals dream--
    Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

                  We look before and after,
                      And pine for what is not;
                  Our sincerest laughter
                      With some pain is fraught;
    Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

                  Yet if we could scorn
                      Hate and pride and fear;
                  If we were things born
                      Not to shed a tear,
    I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

                  Better than all measures
                      Of delightful sound,
                  Better than all treasures
                      That in books are found,
    Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

                  Teach me half the gladness
                      That thy brain must know,
                  Such harmonious madness
                      From my lips would flow,
    The world should listen then--as I am listening now.

HELPS TO STUDY.

Biographical and Historical: Percy Bysshe Shelley was born in 1792. He was an English poet who traveled much in Europe, and found Italy especially to his liking. His life was short and full of storm and stress, although he never allowed his personal sufferings to embitter his spirit. While only thirty, on a pleasure cruise off the coast of Italy, he was drowned.

"To a Skylark" and "The Cloud" are rare poems because of their wonderful harmony of sound.

The skylark is found in northern Europe. It is noted for its lofty flights and wonderful song. Note that Shelley, Wordsworth, and James Hogg have all written poems about the skylark.

Notes and Questions.

What country is the home of these poets? What does this fact suggest to you?

Explain the simile in the fifth stanza. In the sixth.

In the seventh stanza what two words are contrasted?

Note the four comparisons--stanzas eight, nine, ten and eleven. Which do you like best? Why?

In line 86 emphasize the first word and explain the stanza.

In line 95 emphasize the fifth word and explain the stanza.

In line 96 to end, what does Shelley say would be the result if a poet could feel such joy as the little bird seems to feel?

If we had no dark days do you think we could appreciate the bright days?

If we had no sadness could we appreciate the songs of gladness?

If Shelley had never experienced sadness could he have written this beautiful poem of gladness?

Explain the following:

      "There is no music in the life
        That sounds with empty laughter wholly;
        There's not a string attuned to mirth
        But has its chord in melancholy."

What does the skylark mean to Shelley?

If we think only of being happy shall we be very helpful to others?

Make a list of all the names he gives the skylark.

Enumerate the expressions Shelley uses in characterizing the song.

Which stanza do you like best? Why?

"wert" rhymes with heart. (In England the sound is broad, er=Är).

"even"--a contraction of evening.

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

    "profuse strains"
    "panted forth"
    "heavy-winged thieves"
    "unpremeditated art"
    "rain of melody"
    "harmonious madness"
    "shrill delight"
    "flood of rapture"
    "float and run"
    "rains out"
    "triumphant chaunt"
    "scattering unbeholden"

    I sift the snow on the mountains below,
            And their great pines groan aghast;
    And all the night 'tis my pillow white,
        While I sleep in the arms of the blast,
    Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers,
        Lightning, my pilot, sits;
    In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,--
        It struggles and howls by fits;
    Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
        This pilot is guiding me,
    Lured by the love of the genii that move
        In the depths of the purple sea;
    Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
        Over the lakes and the plains,
    Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
        The spirit he loves remains;
    And I, all the while, bask in heaven's blue smile,
        Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

    The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
        And his burning plumes outspread,
    Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
        When the morning-star shines dead,
    As on the jag of a mountain-crag,
        Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
    An eagle, alit, one moment may sit,
        In the light of its golden wings.
    And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
        Its ardors of rest and love,
    And the crimson pall of eve may fall
        From the depth of heaven above,
    With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,
        As still as a brooding dove.

    That orbÈd Maiden, with white fire laden,
        Whom mortals call the Moon,
    Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
        By the midnight breezes strewn;
    And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
        Which only the angels hear,
    May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
        The stars peep behind her, and peer!
    And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
        Like a swarm of golden bees,
    When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
        Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
    Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
        Are each paved with the moon and these.

    I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,
        And the moon's with a girdle of pearl;
    The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
        When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
    From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
        Over a torrent of sea,
    Sun-beam proof, I hang like a roof,
        The mountains its columns be.
    The triumphal arch through which I march
        With hurricane, fire, and snow,
    When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,
        Is the million-colored bow;
    The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,
        While the moist earth was laughing below.

    I am the daughter of earth and water,
        And the nursling of the sky;
    I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
        I change, but I can not die.
    For after the rain, when, with never a stain,
        The pavilion of heaven is bare,
    And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams,
        Build up the blue dome of air,
    I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
        And out of the caverns of rain,
    Like a sprite from the gloom, like a ghost from the tomb,
        I rise and unbuild it again.

HELPS TO STUDY.

Notes and Questions.

In this poem Shelley personifies the Cloud. Why?

What does the second stanza mean to you?

The third stanza relates to the sun; what comparisons are made?

What comparisons are found in the fourth stanza?

Read the last stanza and tell what lesson the poem teaches. What line tells you?

What pictures do you get from the fifth stanza?

Which stanza is most musical and pleasing?

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

    "sanguine sunrise"
    "pavilion of heaven"
    "reel and swim"
    "meteor eyes"
    "caverns of rain"
    "million-colored bow"
    "burning plumes"
    "fleece-like floor"
    "sphere-fire"
    "orbed maiden"
    "wind-built tent"
    "cenotaph"

        Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean--roll!
        Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
        Man marks the earth with ruin--his control
        Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain
        The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
        A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
        When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
        He sinks into thy depths, with bubbling groan--
    Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

        His steps are not upon thy paths--thy fields
        Are not a spoil for him--thou dost arise
        And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
        For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
        Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
        And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray,
        And howling to his gods, where haply lies
        His petty hope in some near port or bay,
    And dashest him again to earth: there let him lay.

        The armaments which thunder-strike the walls
        Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
        And monarchs tremble in their capitals,
        The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
        Their clay creator the vain title take
        Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war:
        These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,
        They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
    Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

        Thy shores are empires changed in all save thee--
        Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
        Thy waters washed them power while they were free,
        And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
        The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
        Has dried up realms to deserts; not so thou;
        Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play.
        Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow:
    Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

        Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
        Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
        Calm or convulsed--in breeze or gale or storm,
        Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
        Dark-heaving; boundless, endless, and sublime--
        The image of Eternity--the throne
        Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
        The monsters of the deep are made; each zone
    Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

        And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
        Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
        Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy
        I wantoned with thy breakers--they to me
        Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
        Made them a terror--'twas a pleasing fear;
        For I was as it were a child of thee,
        And trusted to thy billows far and near,
    And laid my hand upon thy mane--as I do here.

HELPS TO STUDY.

Biographical and Historical: George Gordon Byron was born in London the year before the outbreak of the French Revolution. At the age of ten, upon the death of his grand-uncle he became Lord Byron. He traveled extensively through Europe, spending much time in Italy. At Pisa he formed a warm friendship for the poet Shelley. So deeply was he moved by his impulses toward liberty and freedom that in the summer of 1823 he left Genoa with a supply of arms, medicines, and money to aid the Greeks in their struggle for independence. In the following year he became commander-in-chief at Missolonghi, but he died of a fever before he had an opportunity to actually engage in battle. Hearing the news, the boy Tennyson, dreaming at Somersby on poetic greatness, crept away to weep and carve upon sandstone the words, "Byron is dead."

Notes and Questions.

In the first stanza why "pathless woods" and "lonely shore"?

In the second and third stanzas Byron contrasts the ocean and the earth in their relation to man.

Line 12--What two words require emphasis?

Line 13--With what is "watery plain" contrasted?

Line 14--With what is "thy" contrasted?

Line 22--What word requires emphasis?

In the fourth stanza what contrast does Byron make?

What does the fifth stanza tell? The sixth?

Which stanza do you like best? Why?

Which lines are the most beautiful?

"The Invincible Armada"--an immense Spanish fleet consisting of one hundred thirty vessels, sailed from Corunna in 1588 and attacked the English fleet but suffered defeat. This event furnished Southey the inspiration for a poem, "The Spanish Armada."

"Trafalgar"--one of Lord Nelson's great sea-fights, occurring off Cape Trafalgar on the coast of Spain in 1805. Here he defeated the combined fleets of France and Spain, but was himself killed.

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

    "unknelled"
    "uncoffined"
    "unknown"
    "playful spray"
    "oak leviathans"
    "yeast of waves"
    "These are thy toys"
    "The Armada's pride"
    "spoils of Trafalgar"
    "rock-built"
    "glasses itself"
    "fathomless"

    Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
    That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
    Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath flown,
    That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

    For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
    And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
    And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
    And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!

    And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
    But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
    And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
    And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
    And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
    With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
    And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
    The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

    And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
    And their idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
    And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
    Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

HELPS TO STUDY.

Historical: Sennacherib was King of Assyria. His army invaded Judea and besieged Jerusalem but was overthrown; 185,000 of his men were destroyed in a single night. Sennacherib returned in haste with the remnant to his own country. For the Bible story of this event read 2 Kings XIX. 6-36.

Notes and Questions.

Find Assyria and Galilee on your map.

Note the development:
1. Brilliant outset of the Assyrian cavalry.
2. Their summer changes to winter.
3. The angel turns their sleep into death.
4. The steed and the rider.
5. The mourning.
6. Their idols powerless to help them.
7. Their religion broken down.
8. Their power "melted like snow."

What two comparisons are found in the first stanza?

Note the movement and rhythm.

Point out the fitness of the two similes in the second stanza.

Find a comparison in the sixth stanza.

"Ashur"--Assyria.

"Baal"--the sun-god worshipped by the Assyrians.

Indicate the rhythm of the four lines of the second stanza by writing them in groups under curves as on page 47:

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

    "cohorts"
    "sheen"
    "host"
    "unsmote"
    "idols are broke" (broken)
    "purple and gold"
    "withered and strown"
    "rock-beating surf"

    At midnight, in the forest shades,
        Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,
    True as the steel of their tried blades,
        Heroes in heart and hand.
    There had the Persian's thousands stood,
    There had the glad earth drunk their blood,
        On old PlatÆa's day:
    And now there breathed that haunted air,
    The sons of sires who conquered there,
    With arms to strike, and soul to dare,
        As quick, as far as they.

    An hour passed on--the Turk awoke;
        That bright dream was his last:
    He woke--to hear his sentries shriek,
    "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!"
    He woke--to die mid flames and smoke,
    And shout and groan, and sabre-stroke,
        And death-shots falling thick and fast
    As lightnings from the mountain-cloud;
    And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
        Bozzaris cheer his band:
    "Strike!--till the last armed foe expires;
    Strike!--for your altars and your fires;
    Strike!--for the green graves of your sires;
        God--and your native land!"

    They fought--like brave men, long and well;
        They piled the ground with Moslem slain;
    They conquered--but Bozzaris fell,
        Bleeding at every vein.
    His few surviving comrades saw
    His smile, when rang their proud--"Hurrah,"
        And the red field was won:
    Then saw in death his eyelids close,
    Calmly as to a night's response,
        Like flowers at set of sun.

    But to the hero, when his sword
        Has won the battle for the free,
    Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,
    And in its hollow tones are heard
        The thanks of millions yet to be.
    Bozzaris! with, the storied brave
    Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
    Rest thee--there is no prouder grave,
        Even in her own proud clime.
    We tell thy doom without a sigh;
    For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's--
    One of the few, the immortal names
        That were not born to die.

HELPS TO STUDY.

Biographical and Historical: Fitz-Greene Halleck was born in Connecticut, July 8, 1790, and died November 19, 1867. Of his poems, "Marco Bozzaris" is probably the best known. Marco Bozzaris, leader of the Greek revolution, was, killed August 20, 1823, in an attack upon the Turks near Missolonghi, a Greek town. His last words were: "To die for liberty is a pleasure, not a pain."

Notes and Questions.

Over whom did the Turk dream he gained a victory?

What might be the "trophies of a conqueror"?

Upon whom would a monarch confer the privilege of wearing his signet ring?

Trace the successive steps by which the Turk in his dream rises to the summit of his ambition.

What other "immortal names" do you know?

"Suliote"--natives of Suli, a mountainous district in Albania (European Turkey).

"PlatÆa's day" refers to the victory of the Greeks over the Persians on this field 479 B. C.

"Moslem"--Mohammedans--name given the Turks.

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

    "tried blades"
    "haunted air"
    "storied brave"

    He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,
    He swam the Esk river, where ford there was none;
    But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
    The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
    For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
    Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

    So boldly he entered the Netherby hall,
    'Mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:
    Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword
    (For the poor, craven bridegroom said never a word),
    "O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
    Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"

    "I long wooed your daughter,--my suit you denied;--
    Love swells like the Selway, but ebbs like its tide;
    And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
    To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
    There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
    That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar!"

    The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,
    He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
    She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
    With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
    He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,--
    "Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

    So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
    That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
    While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
    And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume,
    And the bridemaidens whispered, "'Twere better, by far,
    To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

    One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
    When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near,
    So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
    So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
    "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
    They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.

    There was mounting 'mong GrÆmes of the Netherby clan;
    Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode, and they ran;
    There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
    But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
    So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
    Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

HELPS TO STUDY.

Biographical and Historical: Walter Scott was born in Edinburgh, in 1771. He loved the romance of Scotland's history and legends. A collection of legendary ballads, songs, and traditions, published by him early in life met with such immediate success that it confirmed him in his resolution to devote himself to literary pursuits. The two selections here given, are taken from his second metrical romance, "Marmion." Later Scott turned his attention to prose and became the creator of the historical novel, of which "Ivanhoe," "Kenilworth," and "Woodstock" are conspicuous examples. He died in 1832, and lies buried in one of the most beautiful ruins in Scotland, Dryburgh Abbey.

Notes and Questions.

Find Esk River and Solway Firth on your map.

Scott describes the tides of Solway Firth in Chapter IV of his novel, "Redgauntlet." Compare the rhythm with that in "How They Brought the Good News."

What impression of Lochinvar do the opening stanzas give you?

What purpose does the fourth stanza serve?

Line 20--Explain this line.

Line 46--What was the result?

What picture does the sixth stanza give you?

Which stanza do you like best?

Which lines are most pleasing?

"galliard"--a gay dance.

"scaur"--steep bank of river.

"clan"--a group of related families.

Translate into your own words: "'They'll have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth young Lochinvar."

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

    "laggard"
    "brake"
    "bar"
    "charger"
    "craven"
    "bonnet and plume"
    "dastard"
    "gallant"

    The train from out the castle drew,
    But Marmion stopped to bid adieu:
    "Though something I might 'plain," he said,
        "Of cold respect to stranger guest,
        Sent hither by your king's behest,
    While in Tantallon's towers I staid;
        Part we in friendship from your land,
        And, noble Earl, receive my hand."
    But Douglas round him drew his cloak,
    Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:
    "My manors, halls, and bowers shall still
    Be open, at my sovereign's will,
        To each one whom he lists, howe'er
        Unmeet to be the owner's peer.
    My castles are my king's alone,
    From turret to foundation stone;
    The hand of Douglas is his own;
        And never shall, in friendly grasp,
        The hand of such as Marmion clasp."

    Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,
    And shook his very frame for ire;
        And "This to me," he said;
    "An 'twere not for thy hoary beard,
    Such hand as Marmion's had not spared
        To cleave the Douglas' head!
    And, first, I tell thee, haughty peer,
    He, who does England's message here,
    Although the meanest in her state,
    May well, proud Angus, be thy mate:
    And, Douglas, more, I tell thee here,
        Even in thy pitch of pride--
    Here, in thy hold, thy vassals near,
        I tell thee, thou'rt defied!
    And if thou said'st, I am not peer
    To any lord in Scotland here,
    Lowland or Highland, far or near,
        Lord Angus, thou hast lied!"

    On the Earl's cheek, the flush of rage
    O'ercame the ashen hue of age:
    Fierce he broke forth; "And dar'st thou then
    To beard the lion in his den,
        The Douglas in his hall?
    And hopest thou hence unscathed to go?
    No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no!
    Up draw-bridge, grooms,--what, warder, ho!
        Let the portcullis fall."
    Lord Marmion turned,--well was his need,
    And dashed the rowels in his steed,
    Like arrow through the archway sprung;
    The ponderous grate behind him rung:
    To pass there was such scanty room,
    The bars, descending, razed his plume.

    The steed along the draw-bridge flies,
    Just as it trembled on the rise;
    Nor lighter does the swallow skim
    Along the smooth lake's level brim;
    And when Lord Marmion reached his band
    He halts, and turns with clinched hand
    And shout of loud defiance pours,
    And shook his gauntlet at the towers.
    "Horse! horse!" the Douglas cried, "and chase!"
    But soon he reined his fury's pace:
    "A royal messenger he came,
    Though most unworthy of the name.
    Saint Mary mend my fiery mood!
    Old age ne'er cools the Douglas' blood;
    I thought to slay him where he stood.
    'Tis pity of him, too," he cried;
    "Bold he can speak, and fairly ride--
    I warrant him a warrior tried."
    With this his mandate he recalls,
    And slowly seeks his castle halls.

HELPS TO STUDY.

Historical: Marmion, an English nobleman, is sent as an envoy by Henry the Eighth, King of England, to James the Fourth, King of Scotland. The two countries are on the eve of war with each other. Arriving in Edinburgh, Marmion is entrusted by King James to the care and hospitality of Douglas, Earl of Angus, who, taking him to his castle at Tantallon, treats him with the respect due his position as representative of the king, but at the same time dislikes him. The war approaching, Marmion leaves to join the English camp. This sketch describes the leave-taking.

Notes and Questions.

In what part of the castle does this conversation take place? What tells you?

Where are Marmion's followers during this time? Where are Douglas's soldiery and servants? What lines tell you?

Notice how simply Marmion reminds Douglas of the claim he had upon hospitality, while in Scotland. Lines 9 to 12.

Note the claims that have always been allowed the stranger: "And stranger is a holy name, Guidance and rest and food and fire, In vain he never must require."

What part of Marmion's claim does Douglas recognize? Which lines show this?

What claim does Marmion make for one "who does England's message"?

What do we call one "who do England's message" at Washington?

Is this Marmion's personal pride or pride of country (patriotism)? Read the lines in which Marmion's personal pride shows itself in resentment of Douglas's insults.

What does Douglas forget when he threatens Marmion? Line 69.

Which man appears to greater advantage in this scene?

"train"--procession.

"'plain"--complain.

"Tantal'lon"--Douglas's castle.

"warder"--guard.

"peer"--equal.

"peer"--a nobleman.

"Saint Bride"--a saint belonging to the house of Douglas,

"rowel"--wheel of a spur.

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

    "pitch of pride"
    "ponderous grate"
    "swarthy cheek"
    "flush of rage"
    "level brim"
    "haughty peer"
    "ire"
    "vassals"
    "gauntlet"
    "unmeet"
    "hold"

    What though on hamely fare we dine,
        Wear hodden-gray, an a' that;
    Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
        A man's a man for a' that!
            For a' that, and a' that,
                Their tinsel show, and a' that;
            The honest man, though e'er sae poor,
                Is king o' men for a' that.

    Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
        Wha struts, and stares, and a' that;
    Though hundreds worship at his word,
        He's but a coof for a' that;
            For a' that, and a' that,
                His ribband, star, and a' that;
            The man of independent mind,
                He looks and laughs at a' that.

    A prince can make a belted knight,
        A marquis, duke, and a' that;
    But an honest man's aboon his might,
        Guid faith, he maunna fa' that!
            For a' that, and a' that;
                Their dignities, and a' that;
            The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,
                Are higher rank than a' that.

    Then let us pray that come it may,
        As come it will for a' that,
    That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
        Shall bear the gree, and a' that.
            For a' that, and a' that,
                It's comin' yet, for a' that,
            That man to man, the warld o'er
                Shall brothers be for a' that.

HELPS TO STUDY.

Biographical: Robert Burns was born in Ayrshire, Scotland, in 1759. His life was short and full of poverty and privation; but he saw poetry in all the commonplace occurrences of every-day life. His sympathy went out to all human kind and, as the above selection shows, he had a high regard for the real worth of man.

Notes and Questions.

Does birth or station in life determine the man?

Lines 7, 8. Explain these lines.

Lines 29-40. What do these lines mean?

In the following what is omitted? Man's (27); It's (38); o'er (39).

Why did Burns use the word "coward-slave"?

Does the poet say a man is "king of men" because he is poor?

What makes a man a king among his fellowmen?

Scotch words and their English equivalents: a'--all; wha--who; gowd--gold; hamely--homely; hodden--gray--coarse gray cloth; gie--give; sae--so; birkie--clever fellow; ca'd--called; coof--dunce; aboon--above; guid--good; maunna fa'--must not try; gree--prize.

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

    "toils obscure"
    "pith o' sense"
    "guinea stamp"
    "ribband"
    "star"
    "belted knight"

SELECTIONS FROM SHAKESPEARE

HELPS TO STUDY.

Biographical and Historical: William Shakespeare, the greatest of English poets, indeed one of the greatest of the world's poets, was born in 1564 at Stratford-on-Avon. As a young man of twenty-two, after his marriage with Anne Hathaway, he went up to London, where he became connected with theaters, first, tradition says, by holding horses at the doors. The next twenty years he spent in London as an actor, and in writing poems and plays, later becoming a shareholder as well as an actor. The last ten years of his life were spent at Stratford, where he died at the age of fifty-two. This was the time of Queen Elizabeth and is known as the Elizabethan Age. It was the age richest in genius of all kinds, but especially in the creation of dramatic literature.

In the foregoing selection, Portia, disguised as a lawyer, makes this famous speech in pleading the cause of Antonio against Shylock.

Notes

"strained"--restrained "shows"--is the emblem of

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

    "temporal power"
    "sceptered sway"
    "Earthly power doth then show likest
    God's When mercy seasons justice"

HELPS TO STUDY.

Notes

"Mewling"--squalling.
"sudden"--impetuous.
"sans"--without.
"his"--its, which was just coming into use at this time.
"formal cut"--trim, near--not shaggy as that of the soldier's,
"wise saws"--wise sayings.
"modern instances"--everyday examples, illustrations.
"strange oaths"--soldiers are proverbially profane--probably satirical reference to the affectation of foreign oaths by soldiers who have been abroad.

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

Comparisons:
    "creeping like snail"
    "sighing like furnace"
    "bearded like the pard"

    "eyes severe"
    "woeful ballad"
    "mere oblivion"
    "Seeking the bubble reputation
     Even in the cannon's mouth"

HELPS TO STUDY.

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

    "express"
    "paragon"
    "infinite"
    "apprehension"

HELPS TO STUDY.

Notes

"coil"--turmoil.
"respect"--consideration.
"fardels"--burdens.

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

    "shuffled off this mortal coil"
    "puzzles the will"
    "native hue of resolution"
    "pale cast of thought"
    "great pitch and moment"

HELPS TO STUDY.

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

    "immediate jewel of their souls"
    "Who steals my purse steals trash"

    Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
    In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,
    Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.
    Let's dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
    And--when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
    And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
    Of me more must be heard of--say, I taught thee;
    Say, Wolsey--that once trod the ways of glory,
    And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor--
    Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;
    A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.
    Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me.
    Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition:
    By that sin fell the angels: how can man, then,
    The image of his Maker, hope to win by't?
    Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee;
    Corruption wins not more than honesty:
    Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,
    To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not.
    Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,
    Thy God's, and truth's; then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell,
    Thou fall'st a blessed martyr! Serve the king;
    And--Prithee, lead me in:
    There take an inventory of all I have,
    To the last penny; 'tis the king's; my robe,
    And my integrity to Heaven, is all
    I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell,
    Had I but served my God with half the zeal
    I served my king, he would not in mine age
    Have left me naked to mine enemies!

HELPS TO STUDY.

Notes

"This many summers"--this nineteen years.
"Like Lucifer"--See Isaiah XIV, 12.
"To play the woman"--to shed tears.

"Where's your mother?"

"Oh, she too had died but a short time since; she broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New England peddler."

There was a drop of comfort at least, in this intelligence. The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter and her child in his arms. "I am your father!" cried he--"Young Rip Van Winkle once--old Rip Van Winkle now! Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle?"

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, "Sure enough, it is Rip Van Winkle--it is himself! Welcome home again, old neighbor--Why, where have you been these twenty long years?"

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when they heard it; some were seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues in their cheeks; and the self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth and shook his head--upon which there was a general shaking of the head throughout the assemblage.

It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the neighborhood. He recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill Mountains had always been haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the Half-moon; being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river and the great city called by his name. That his father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at ninepins in a hollow of the mountain; and that he himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls like distant peals of thunder.

To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned to the more important concerns of the election. Rip's daughter took him home to live with her; she had a snug well-furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the farm; but evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to anything else but his business.

Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and tear of time; and preferred making friends among the rising generation, with whom he soon grew into great favor. Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy age when a man can be idle with impunity, he took his place once more on the bench at the inn door, and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old times "before the war." It was some time before he could get into the regular track of gossip, or could be made to comprehend the strange events that had taken place during his torpor. How that there had been a revolutionary war--that the country had thrown off the yoke of old England--and that, instead of being a subject of his Majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician; the changes of states and empires made but little impression on him; but there was one species of despotism under which he had long groaned, and that was--petticoat government. Happily that was at an end; he had got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes, which might pass either for an expression of resignation to his fate, or joy at his deliverance.

He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on some points every time he told it, which was, doubtless, owing to his having so recently awaked. It at last settled down precisely to the tale I have related, and not a man, woman, or child in the neighborhood but knew it by heart. Some always pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his head, and that this was one point on which he always remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally gave it full credit. Even to this day they never hear a thunder-storm of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of ninepins; and it is a common wish of all henpecked husbands in the neighborhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon.

HELPS TO STUDY.

The three stages of the story are: The sleep, the return, the recognition. Through them all personal identity remains.

Notes and Questions.

Rip Van Winkle--the man: his characteristics, habits, family.

The place: the village, the inn, the surroundings, the times.

The autumn ramble: the woods, the dog, the gun, the Hudson, the stranger, the "ninepins" company, the flagon, the waking--the changed scenes.

The afternoon of the day, the afternoon of the year (autumn), and the afternoon of life (old man) are chosen by the author.

What is the fitness in selecting a village near the mountains? Why choose a village at all?

Note the civic progress of the people--the change from a royal dependency to an independent republic.

Locate on the map the scene of this selection and tell the period in which it occurred. Point out parts of the story that tell you when it happened.

Select descriptions in this selection that are especially pleasing.

Words and Phrases, for Discussion

    "puzzled"
    "peddler"
    "self-important man"
    "enormous"
    "austere"
    "vacant stupidity"
    "fatigued"
    "Tory"
    "well-oiled disposition"
    "grizzled"
    "cocked hat"
    "torrent of household eloquence"
    "transient"
    "ruby face"
    "desolateness"
    "gaping windows"

Still I had not half seen Niagara. Following the verge of the island, the path led me to the Horseshoe, where the real, broad St. Lawrence, rushing along on a level with its banks, pours its whole breadth over a concave line of precipice, and thence pursues its course between lofty crags towards Ontario. A sort of bridge, two or three feet wide, stretches out along the edge of the descending sheet, and hangs upon the rising mist, as if that were the foundation of the frail structure. Here I stationed myself in the blast of wind, which the rushing river bore along with it. The bridge was tremulous beneath me, and marked the tremor of the solid earth. I looked along the whitening rapids, and endeavored to distinguish a mass of water far above the falls, to follow it to their verge, and go down with it, in fancy, to the abyss of clouds and storm. Casting my eyes across the river, and every side, I took in the whole scene at a glance, and tried to comprehend it in one vast idea. After an hour thus spent, I left the bridge, and by a staircase, winding almost interminably round a post, descended to the base of the precipice. From that point, my path lay over slippery stones, and among great fragments of the cliff, to the edge of the cataract, where the wind at once enveloped me in spray, and perhaps dashed the rainbow round me. Were my long desires fulfilled? And had I seen Niagara?

Oh that I had never heard of Niagara till I beheld it! Blessed were the wanderers of old, who heard its deep roar, sounding through the woods, as the summons to an unknown wonder, and approached its awful brink, in all the freshness of native feeling. Had its own mysterious voice been the first to warn me of its existence, then, indeed, I might have knelt down and worshipped. But I had come thither, haunted with a vision of foam and fury, and dizzy cliffs, and an ocean tumbling down out of the sky,--a scene, in short, which nature had too much good taste and calm simplicity to realize. My mind had struggled to adapt these false conceptions to the reality, and finding the effort vain, a wretched sense of disappointment weighed me down. I climbed the precipice, and threw myself on the earth, feeling that I was unworthy to look at the Great Falls, and careless about beholding them again.

All that night, as there has been and will be for ages past and to come, a rushing sound was heard, as if a great tempest were sweeping through the air. It mingled with my dreams, and made them full of storm and whirlwind. Whenever I awoke, and heard this dread sound in the air, and the windows rattling as with a mighty blast, I could not rest again, till looking forth, I saw how bright the stars were, and that every leaf in the garden was motionless. Never was a summer night more calm to the eye, nor a gale of autumn louder to the ear. The rushing sound proceeds from the rapids, and the rattling of the casements is but an effect of the vibration of the whole house, shaken by the jar of the cataract. The noise of the rapids draws the attention from the true voice of Niagara, which is a dull, muffled thunder, resounding between the cliffs. I spent a wakeful hour at midnight, in distinguishing its reverberations, and rejoiced to find that my former awe and enthusiasm were reviving.

Gradually, and after much contemplation, I came to know, by my own feelings, that Niagara is indeed a wonder of the world, and not the less wonderful, because time and thought must be employed in comprehending it. Casting aside all preconceived notions, and preparation to be dire-struck or delighted, the beholder must stand beside it in the simplicity of his heart, suffering the mighty scene to work its own impression. Night after night, I dreamed of it, and was gladdened every morning by the consciousness of a growing capacity to enjoy it. Yet I will not pretend to the all-absorbing enthusiasm of some more fortunate spectators, nor deny that very trifling causes would draw my eyes and thoughts from the cataract.

The last day that I was to spend at Niagara, before my departure for the Far West, I sat upon the Table Rock. This celebrated station did not now, as of old, project fifty feet beyond the line of the precipice, but was shattered by the fall of an immense fragment, which lay distant on the shore below. Still, on the utmost verge of the rock, with my feet hanging over it, I felt as if suspended in the open air. Never before had my mind been in such perfect unison with the scene. There were intervals, when I was conscious of nothing but the great river, lolling calmly into the abyss, rather descending than precipitating itself, and acquiring tenfold majesty from its unhurried motion. It came like the march of Destiny. It was not taken by surprise, but seemed to have anticipated, in all its course through the broad lakes, that it must pour their collected waters down this height. The perfect foam of the river, after its descent, and the ever-varying shapes of mist, rising up, to become clouds in the sky, would be the very picture of confusion, were it merely transient, like the rage of a tempest. But when the beholder has stood awhile, and perceives no lull in the storm, and considers that the vapor and the foam are as everlasting as the rocks which produce them, all this turmoil assumes a sort of calmness. It soothes, while it awes the mind.

Leaning over the cliff, I saw the guide conducting two adventurers behind the falls. It was pleasant, from that high seat in the sunshine, to observe them struggling against the eternal storm of the lower regions, with heads bent down, now faltering, now pressing forward, and finally swallowed up in their victory. After their disappearance, a blast rushed out with an old hat, which it had swept from one of their heads. The rock, to which they were directing their unseen course, is marked, at a fearful distance on the exterior of the sheet, by a jet of foam. The attempt to reach it appears both poetical and perilous to a looker-on, but may be accomplished without much more difficulty or hazard than in stemming a violent northeaster. In a few moments, forth came the children of the mist. Dripping and breathless, they crept along the base of the cliff, ascended to the guide's cottage, and received, I presume, a certificate of their achievement, with three verses of sublime poetry on the back.

My contemplations were often interrupted by strangers who came down from Forsyth's to take their first view of the falls. A short, ruddy, middle-aged gentleman, fresh from Old England, peeped over the rock, and evinced his approbation by a broad grin. His spouse, a very robust lady, afforded a sweet example of maternal solicitude, being so intent on the safety of her little boy that she did not even glance at Niagara. As for the child,--he gave himself wholly to the enjoyment of a stick of candy. Another traveller, a native American, and no rare character among us, produced a volume of Captain Hall's tour, and labored earnestly to adjust Niagara to the captain's description, departing, at last, without one new idea or sensation of his own. The next comer was provided, not with a printed book, but with a blank sheet of foolscap, from top to bottom of which, by means of an ever-pointed pencil, the cataract was made to thunder. In a little talk which we had together, he awarded his approbation to the general view, but censured the position of Goat Island, observing that it should have been thrown farther to the right, so as to widen the American falls, and contract those of the Horseshoe. Next appeared two traders of Michigan, who declared, that, upon the whole, the sight was worth looking at; there certainly was an immense water-power here; but that, after all, they would go twice as far to see the noble stone-works of Lockport, where the Grand Canal is locked down a descent of sixty feet. They were succeeded by a young fellow, in a homespun cotton dress, with a staff in his hand, and a pack over his shoulders. He advanced close to the edge of the rock, where his attention, at first wavering among the different components of the scene, finally became fixed in the angle of the Horseshoe falls, which is, indeed the central point of interest. His whole soul seemed to go forth and be transported thither, till the staff slipped from his relaxed grasp, and falling down--down--down--struck upon the fragment of the Table Rock.

In this manner I spent some hours, watching the varied impression, made by the cataract, on those who disturbed me, and returning to unwearied contemplation, when left alone. At length my time came to depart. There is a grassy footpath through the woods, along the summit of the bank, to a point whence a causeway, hewn in the side of the precipice, goes winding down to the Ferry, about half a mile below the Table Rock. The sun was near setting, when I emerged from the shadow of the trees, and began the descent. The indirectness of my downward road continually changed the point of view, and showed me, in rich and repeated succession, now, the whitening rapids and majestic leap of the main river, which appeared more deeply massive as the light departed; now, the lovelier picture, yet still sublime, of Goat Island, with its rocks and grove, and the lesser falls, tumbling over the right bank of the St. Lawrence, like a tributary stream; now, the long vista of the river, as it eddied and whirled between the cliffs, to pass through Ontario toward the sea, and everywhere to be wondered at, for this one unrivalled scene. The golden sunshine tinged the sheet of the American cascade, and painted on its heaving spray the broken semi-circle of a rainbow, heaven's own beauty crowning earth's sublimity. My steps were slow, and I paused long at every turn of the descent, as one lingers and pauses who discerns a brighter and brightening excellence in what he must soon behold no more. The solitude of the old wilderness now reigned over the whole vicinity of the falls. My enjoyment became the more rapturous, because no poet shared it, nor wretch devoid of poetry profaned it; but the spot so famous through the world was all my own!

HELPS TO STUDY.

Notes and Questions.

Why was Hawthorne's first impression of Niagara a disappointment?

How did Hawthorne come to know that Niagara is a wonder of the world?

What feelings did Niagara produce in Hawthorne?

What effect on the reader did Hawthorne seek in this story?

What does Hawthorne say is necessary in order to appreciate nature?

What relation has Niagara to the geography of the country, its animal and vegetable life, its trade and industry?

What is the effect on one's feelings when he "considers that the vapor and the foam are as everlasting as the rocks which produce them"?

Niagara grew on Hawthorne. Justify this.

Note the comments of other observers based upon their interpretation of Niagara.

Do you think one who sees nothing in Niagara except a mass of rock and water, vapor and sunshine, could appreciate its beauty, grandeur, and sublimity?

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

    "insulated"
    "rapturous"
    "abyss of clouds"
    "eddied and whirled"
    "epicurism"
    "convoluted"
    "voice of ages"
    "mysterious voice"
    "unrivaled scene"
    "Eternal Rainbow"
    "majestic leap"

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
    And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
    Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow
    From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore,
    For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore:
            Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
    Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
    "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,
    Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door:
            This it is and nothing more."

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
    "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
    That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door:--
            Darkness there and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
    Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
    This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore":
            Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
    Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
    Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore;
    Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore:
            'Tis the wind and nothing more."

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
    In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door,
    Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door:
            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

    Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling
    By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,--
    "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
    Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore:
    Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
            Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

    Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
    Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,
    Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
            With such name as "Nevermore."

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
    That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour,
    Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then he fluttered,
    Till I scarcely more than muttered,--"Other friends have flown before;
    On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."
            Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
    "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore:
    Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
            Of 'Never--nevermore.'"

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
    Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of 'yore,
    What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
            Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
    To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
    On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
    But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er
            She shall press,' ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
    Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee by these angels he hath sent thee
    Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
    Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
            Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

    "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!
    Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted
    On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore:
    Is there, is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"
            Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

    "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!
    By that Heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore,
    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore:
    Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore!"
            Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

    "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting:
    "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door!
    Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
            Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

HELPS TO STUDY.

Notes and Questions.

What is the theme of this poem?

What gives it its musical quality?

Mention parts that you think are especially beautiful.

Find examples of alliteration.

What does the refrain add to this poem?

What is the meaning of "Night's Plutonian shore"?

Of what is the raven a symbol?

Why does the poet call the bust of Pallas "pallid"?

What is the significance of the last stanza?

From this poem, in what would you say Poe's poetry excels?

Which stanza do you like best?

Why?

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

    "ghost"
    "surcease"
    "entreating"
    "obeisance"
    "craven"
    "ominous"
    "censer"
    "seraphim"
    "nepenthe"
    "dying ember"
    "fantastic terrors"
    "saintly days"
    "tufted floor"
    "pallid bust"
    "radiant maiden"
    "dirges of his Hope"
    "bird of yore"
    "balm in Gilead"

    Nearer and ever nearer, among the numberless islands,
    Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water,
    Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trappers.
    Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and beaver.
    At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and careworn.
    Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and a sadness
    Somewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly written.
    Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy and restless,
    Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and of sorrow.
    Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the island,
    But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of palmettos;
    So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the willows;
    And undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and unseen, were the sleepers;
    Angel of God was there none to awaken the slumbering maiden.
    Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on the prairie.
    After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died in the distance,
    As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and the maiden
    Said with a sigh to the friendly priest, "O Father Felician!
    Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel wanders.
    Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague superstition?
    Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to my spirit?"
    Then, with a blush, she added, "Alas for my credulous fancy!
    Unto ears like thine such words as these have no meaning."
    But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as he answered,--
    "Daughter, thy words are not idle; nor are they to me without meaning,
    Feeling is deep and still; and the word that floats on the surface
    Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden.
    Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions.
    Gabriel truly is near thee; for not far away to the southward,
    On the banks of the TÊche, are the towns of St. Maur and St. Martin.
    There the long-wandering bride shall be given again to her bridegroom,
    There the long-absent pastor regain his flock and his sheepfold.
    Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of fruit-trees;
    Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest of heavens
    Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls of the forest.
    They who dwell there have named it the Eden of Louisiana."

    And with these words of cheer they arose and continued their journey.
    Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon
    Like a magician extended his golden wand o'er the landscape;
    Twinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forest
    Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together.
    Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver,
    Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless water.
    Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweetness.
    Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountain of feeling
    Glowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters around her.
    Then from a neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of singers,
    Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water,
    Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music,
    That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen.
    Plaintive at first were the tones and sad; then soaring to madness
    Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes.
    Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation;
    Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision,
    As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-tops
    Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches.
    With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed with emotion,
    Slowly they entered the TÊche, where it flows through the green Opelousas,
    And, through the amber air, above the crest of the woodland,
    Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neighboring dwelling;--
    Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing of cattle.

III.

    Near to the bank of the river, o'ershadowed by oaks from whose branches
    Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe flaunted,
    Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets at Yule-tide,
    Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herdsman. A garden
    Girded it round about with a belt of luxuriant blossoms,
    Filling the air with fragrance. The house itself was of timbers
    Hewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully fitted together.
    Large and low was the roof; and on slender columns supported,
    Rose-wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and spacious veranda,
    Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended around it.
    At each end of the house, amid the flowers of the garden,
    Stationed the dove-cots were, as love's perpetual symbol,
    Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions of rivals.
    Silence reigned o'er the place. The line of shadow and sunshine
    Ran near the tops of the trees; but the house itself was in shadow,
    And from its chimney-top, ascending and slowly expanding
    Into the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke rose.
    In the rear of the house, from the garden gate, ran a pathway
    Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of the limitless prairie,
    Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly descending.
    Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy canvas
    Hanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm in the tropics,
    Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grapevines.

    Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie,
    Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups,
    Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of deerskin.
    Broad and brown was the face that from under the Spanish sombrero
    Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its master.
    Round about him were numberless herds of kine that were grazing
    Quietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapory freshness
    That uprose from the river, and spread itself over the landscape.
    Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and expanding
    Fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that resounded
    Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air of the evening.
    Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the cattle
    Rose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of ocean.
    Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed o'er the prairie,
    And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in the distance.
    Then, as the herdsman turned to the house, through the gate of the garden
    Saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing to meet him.
    Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and forward
    Rushed with extended arms and exclamations of wonder;
    When they beheld his face, they recognized Basil the blacksmith.
    Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the garden.
    There in an arbor of roses with endless question and answer
    Gave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their friendly embraces,
    Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent and thoughtful.
    Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not; and now dark doubts' and misgivings
    Stole o'er the maiden's heart; and Basil, somewhat embarrassed,
    Broke the silence and said, "If you came by the Atchafalaya,
    How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel's boat on the bayous?"
    Over Evangeline's face at the words of Basil a shade passed.
    Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous accent,
    "Gone? is Gabriel gone?" and, concealing her face on his shoulder,
    All her o'erburdened heart gave way, and she wept and lamented.
    Then the good Basil said,--and his voice grew blithe as he said it,--
    "Be of good cheer, my child; it is only to-day he departed.
    Foolish boy! he has left me alone with my herds and my horses,
    Moody and restless grown, and tired and troubled, his spirit
    Could no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence.
    Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever,
    Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles,
    He at length had become so tedious to men and to maidens,
    Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me, and sent him
    Unto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the Spaniards.
    Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark Mountains,
    Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the beaver.
    Therefore be of good cheer; we will follow the fugitive lover;
    He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are against him.
    Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of the morning,
    We will follow him fast, and bring him back to his prison."

    Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the river,
    Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Michael the fiddler.
    Long under Basil's roof had he lived, like a god on Olympus,
    Having no other care than dispensing music to mortals.
    Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle.
    "Long live Michael," they cried, "our brave Acadian minstrel!"
    As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession; and straightway
    Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting the old man
    Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, enraptured,
    Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips,
    Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters.
    Much they marveled to see the wealth of the ci-devant blacksmith,
    All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal demeanor;
    Much they marveled to hear his tales of the soil and the climate,
    And of the prairies, whose numberless herds were his who would take them;
    Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do likewise.
    Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the breezy veranda,
    Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of Basil
    Waited his late return; and they rested and feasted together.

    Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended.
    All was silent without, and, illuming the landscape with silver,
    Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars; but within doors,
    Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in the glimmering lamplight.
    Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, the herdsman
    Poured forth his heart and his wine together in endless profusion.
    Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchitoches tobacco,
    Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as they listened:--
    "Welcome once more, my friends, who so long have been friendless and homeless,
    Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than the old one!
    Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers;
    Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the farmer;
    Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a keel through the water.
    All the year round the orange-groves are in blossom; and grass grows
    More in a single night than a whole Canadian summer.
    Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the prairies;
    Here, too, lands may he had for the asking, and forests of timber
    With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into houses.
    After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with harvests,
    No King George of England shall drive you away from your homesteads,
    Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing your farms and your cattle."
    Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his nostrils,
    And his huge, brawny hand came thundering down on the table,
    So that the guests all started; and Father Felician, astounded,
    Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff half-way to his nostrils.
    But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were milder and gayer:--
    "Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware of the fever!
    For it is not like that of our cold Acadian climate,
    Cured by wearing a spider hung round one's neck in a nutshell!"
    Then there were voices heard at the door, and footsteps approaching
    Sounded upon the stairs and the floor of the breezy Veranda.
    It was the neighboring Creoles and small Acadian planters,
    Who had been summoned all to the house of Basil the herdsman.
    Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and neighbors:
    Friend clasped friend in his arms; and they who before were as strangers,
    Meeting in exile, became straightway as friends to each other,
    Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country together.
    But in the neighboring hall a strain of music, proceeding
    From the accordant strings of Michael's melodious fiddle,
    Broke up all further speech. Away, like children delighted,
    All things forgotten beside, they gave themselves to the maddening
    Whirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to the music,
    Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of fluttering garments.

    Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest and the herdsman
    Sat, conversing together of past and present and future;
    While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within her
    Olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the music
    Heard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressible sadness
    Came o'er her heart, and unseen she stole forth into the garden.
    Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest,
    Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river
    Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight,
    Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit.
    Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden
    Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and confessions
    Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian.
    Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night-dews,
    Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical moonlight
    Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings,
    As, through the garden gate, beneath the brown shade of the oak-trees,
    Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie.
    Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies
    Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers.
    Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens,
    Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship,
    Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple,
    As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, "Upharsin."
    And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-flies,
    Wandered alone, and she cried, "O Gabriel! O my beloved!
    Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee?
    Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me?
    Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie!
    Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around me!
    Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor,
    Thou hast lain, down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers!
    When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee?"
    Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill sounded
    Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighboring thickets,
    Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence.
    "Patience!" whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of darkness;
    And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, "To-morrow!"

    Bright rose the sun next day; and all the flowers of the garden
    Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed his tresses
    With the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of crystal.
    "Farewell!" said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy threshold;
    "See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from his fasting and famine,
    And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom was coming."
    "Farewell!" answered the maiden, and, smiling, with Basil descended
    Down to the rivers brink, where the boatmen already were waiting.
    Thus beginning their journey with morning, and sunshine, and gladness,
    Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was speeding before them,
    Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over the desert.
    Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that succeeded,
    Found they trace of his course, in lake or forest or river,
    Nor, after many days, had they found him; but vague and uncertain
    Rumors alone were their guides through a wild and desolate country;
    Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of Adayes,
    Weary and worn, they alighted, and learned from the garrulous landlord
    That on the day before, with horses and guides and companions,
    Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies.

IV.

    Far in the West there lies a desert land, where the mountains
    Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and luminous summits.
    Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the gorge, like a gateway,
    Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant's wagon,
    Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway and Owyhee.
    Eastward, with devious course, among the Wind-river Mountains,
    Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate leaps the Nebraska;
    And to the south, from Fontaine-qui-bout and the Spanish sierras,
    Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the wind of the desert,
    Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend to the ocean,
    Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibrations.
    Spreading between these streams are the wondrous, beautiful prairies,
    Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine,
    Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas.
    Over them wander the buffalo herds, and the elk and the roebuck;
    Over them wander the wolves, and herds of riderless horses;
    Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary with travel;
    Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael's children,
    Staining the desert with blood; and above their terrible wartrails
    Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vulture,
    Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle,
    By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens.
    Here and there rise smokes from the camps of these savage marauders;
    Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift-running rivers;
    And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert,
    Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brookside,
    And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven,
    Like the protecting hand of God inverted above them.

    Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Mountains,
    Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him.
    Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and Basil
    Followed his flying steps, and thought each day to o'ertake him.
    Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his camp-fire
    Rise in the morning air from the distant plain; but at nightfall,
    When they had reached the place, they found only embers and ashes.
    And, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies were weary,
    Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata Morgana
    Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated and vanished before them.

    Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently entered
    Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose features
    Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow.
    She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people,
    From the far-off hunting grounds of the cruel Comanches,
    Where her Canadian husband, a coureur-des-bois, had been murdered.
    Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and friendliest welcome
    Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them
    On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the embers.
    But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his companions,
    Worn with the long day's march and the chase of the deer and the bison,
    Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the quivering fire-light
    Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapped up in their blankets,
    Then at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat and repeated
    Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian accent,
    All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and reverses.
    Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another
    Hapless heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed.
    Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman's compassion,
    Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near her,
    She in turn related her love and all its disasters.
    Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had ended
    Still was mute; but at length, as if a mysterious horror
    Passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of the Mowis;
    Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden,
    But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam,
    Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine,
    Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the forest.
    Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird incantation,
    Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a phantom,
    That, through the pines o'er her father's lodge, in the hush of the twilight,
    Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the maiden,
    Till she followed his green and waving plume through the forest,
    And nevermore returned, nor was seen again by her people.
    Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline listened
    To the soft flow of her magical words, till the region around her
    Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest the enchantress.
    Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the moon rose,
    Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious splendor
    Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and filling the woodland.
    With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the branches
    Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible whispers.
    Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline's heart, but a secret,
    Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror,
    As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the swallow.
    It was no earthly fear. A breath from the region, of spirits
    Seemed to float in the air of night; and she felt for a moment
    That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom.
    And with this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had vanished.

    Early upon the morrow the march was resumed, and the Shawnee
    Said, as they journeyed along,--"On the western slope of these mountains
    Dwells in his little village the Black Robe chief of the Mission.
    Much he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary and Jesus;
    Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with pain, as they hear him."
    Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline answered,
    "Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await us!"
    Thither they turned their steeds; and behind a spur of the mountains,
    Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices,
    And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river,
    Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit Mission.
    Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village,
    Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children. A crucifix fastened
    High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grapevines,
    Looked with its agonized face on the multitude kneeling beneath it.
    This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the intricate arches
    Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers,
    Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the branches.
    Silent, with heads uncovered, the travelers, nearer approaching,
    Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening devotions.
    But when the service was done, and the benediction had fallen
    Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands of the sower,
    Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers, and bade them
    Welcome; and when they replied, he smiled with benignant expression,
    Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother-tongue in the forest,
    And, with words of kindness, conducted them into his wigwam.
    There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes of the maize-ear
    Feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water-gourd of the teacher.
    Soon was their story told; and the priest with solemnity answered:--
    "Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, seated
    On this mat by my side, where now the maiden reposes,
    Told me this same sad tale; then arose and continued his journey!"
    Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent of kindness;
    But on Evangeline's heart fell his words as in winter the snowflakes
    Fall into some lone nest from which the birds have departed.
    "Far to the north he has gone," continued the priest; "but in autumn,
    When the chase is done, will return again to the Mission."
    Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive,
    "Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad and afflicted."
    So seemed it wise and well unto all; and betimes on the morrow,
    Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and companions,
    Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at the Mission.

    Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each other,--
    Days and weeks and months; and the fields of maize that were springing
    Green from the ground when a stranger she came, now waving about her,
    Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, and forming
    Cloisters for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged by squirrels.
    Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, and the maidens
    Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover,
    But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the cornfield.
    Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought not her lover.
    "Patience!" the priest would say; "have faith, and thy prayer will be answered!
    Look at this delicate plant that lifts its head from the meadow,
    See how its leaves all point to the north, as true as the magnet;
    It is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has suspended
    Here on its fragile stalk to direct the traveler's journey
    Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert.
    Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms of passion,
    Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance,
    But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly.
    Only this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafter
    Crown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet with the dews of nepenthe."

    So came the autumn, and passed, and the winter--yet Gabriel came not;
    Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of the robin and bluebird
    Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet Gabriel came not.
    But on the breath of the summer winds a rumor was wafted
    Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odor of blossom.
    Far to the north and east, it said, in the Michigan forests,
    Gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the Saginaw River.
    And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of St. Lawrence,
    Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the Mission.
    When over weary ways, by long and perilous marches,
    She had attained at length the depths of the Michigan forests,
    Found she the hunter's lodge deserted and fallen to ruin!

    Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and places
    Divers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden;--
    Now in the Tents of Grace of the meek Moravian Missions,
    Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of the army,
    Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities.
    Like a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered.
    Fair was she and young, when in hope began the long journey;
    Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended.
    Each succeeding year stole something away from her beauty,
    Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the shadow.
    Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of gray o'er her forehead,
    Dawn of another life, that broke o'er her earthly horizon,
    As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning.

    V.

    In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's waters,
    Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle,
    Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded.
    There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty,
    And the streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the forest,
    As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested.
    There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile,
    Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country.
    There old RenÉ Leblanc had died; and when he departed,
    Saw at his side only one of all his hundred descendants.
    Something at least there was in the friendly streets of the city,
    Something that spake to her heart, and made her no longer a stranger;
    And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the Quakers,
    For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country,
    Where all men were equal, and all were brothers and sisters.
    So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavor,
    Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining,
    Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and her footsteps.
    As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning
    Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us,
    Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets,
    So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far below her,
    Dark no longer, but all illumined with love; and the pathway
    Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the distance.
    Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image,
    Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him,
    Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence and absence.
    Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not.
    Over him years had no power; he was not changed, but transfigured;
    He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent;
    Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others,
    This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her.
    So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous spices,
    Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma.
    Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow,
    Meekly with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour.
    Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy; frequenting
    Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city,
    Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sunlight.
    Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected.
    Night after night when the world was asleep, as the watchman repeated
    Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city,
    High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper.
    Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow through the suburbs
    Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the market,
    Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings.

    Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city,
    Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks of wild pigeons,
    Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in their craws but an acorn.
    And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September,
    Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the meadow,
    So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural margin,
    Spread to a brackish lake the silver stream of existence.
    Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the oppressor;
    But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger;--
    Only, alas! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants,
    Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless.
    Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and woodlands;--
    Now the city surrounds it; but still, with its gateway and wicket
    Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seem to echo
    Softly the words of the Lord:--"The poor ye always have with you."
    Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy. The dying
    Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there
    Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendor,
    Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles,
    Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance.
    Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial,
    Into whose shining gates erelong their spirits would enter.

    Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and silent,
    Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse.
    Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flowers in the garden,
    And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them,
    That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and beauty.
    Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the east-wind,
    Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of Christ Church,
    While, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted
    Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their church at Wicaco.
    Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on her spirit;
    Something within her said, "At length thy trials are ended;"
    And, with light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sickness.
    Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants,
    Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in silence
    Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their faces,
    Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the roadside.
    Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered,
    Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her presence
    Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison.
    And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler,
    Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.
    Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night time;
    Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers.

    Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder,
    Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, while a shudder
    Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped from her fingers,
    And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning.
    Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish,
    That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows.
    On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man.
    Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that shaded his temples;
    But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment
    Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood;
    So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying.
    Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever,
    As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its portals,
    That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over.
    Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted
    Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the darkness,
    Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking.
    Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations,
    Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded
    Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saintlike,
    "Gabriel! O my beloved!" and died away into silence.
    Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood;
    Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them,
    Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under their shadow,
    As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision.
    Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids,
    Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside.
    Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered
    Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken.
    Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him,
    Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom.
    Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness,
    As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement.

    All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow,
    All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing,
    All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience!
    And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom,
    Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, "Father, I thank thee!"

    Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow,
    Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.
    Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard,
    In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed.
    Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them,
    Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever,
    Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy,
    Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors,
    Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey!

    Still stands the forest primeval; but under the shade of its branches
    Dwells another race, with other customs and language.
    Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic
    Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile
    Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom.
    In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy;
    Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun,
    And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story,
    While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighboring ocean
    Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

HELPS TO STUDY.

Historical: The early history of Nova Scotia records the conflict for supremacy between the French and the English. By the French the country was called Acadie, The Acadians were essentially French in blood and in their sympathies, though the English were from time to time in authority over the country. At one time the English demanded an oath of allegiance from the Acadians. This they refused unless it should be so modified as to exempt them from bearing arms against France. It was finally decided to remove the Acadians from the country, scattering them throughout the colonies in such a way as to prevent their concerted action in attempting to return to their homes. Accordingly they were driven on board the English transports and three thousand of them sent out of the country. In the confusion incident to their removal, families and friends were separated, in many cases never to meet again. The story of Evangeline is a recital of such separation.

Notes and Questions.

Into what parts is the poem divided?

With what does Part First deal? Part Second?

What purpose do the introductory lines to Part First serve?

Which lines give you the best picture of Acadie?

Which lines best describe the Acadians?

Explain: "There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance."

What characteristics had Evangeline? Find lines that tell you.

What picture does the poem give you of the home of Evangeline?

Who was Gabriel?

Describe the visit of Basil and Gabriel.

What were the characteristics of Father Leblanc?

Which lines in Longfellow's description of the contract and the evening scene at the farmer's are the most beautiful?

Describe the betrothal feast in your own words.

What message did the voice of the thunder convey to Evangeline?

Describe in your own words the embarkation, and the death of Evangeline's father.

Note the devotion of Evangeline as shown in her wanderings in search of Gabriel in the United States: The visit of Evangeline to the Acadian settlement in Louisiana, the southern home of Basil; Evangeline and Basil follow Gabriel to the West; Evangeline as a Sister of Mercy in Philadelphia; Gabriel found dying; The concluding stanza of the poem.

Which of the above descriptions impressed you most? Which is most pathetic? Which do you like best?

Trace the journeyings of Evangeline on your map.

Find the lines that describe the burning of Grand-PrÉ. What can you say about this description?

In this poem there are many beautiful descriptions. What kinds of scenery are described? What kinds of people are described?

What had a life of sorrow taught Evangeline? Which lines tell you?

What led her to devote herself to the service of others?

What finally became her sole hope and wish?

Why does this poem endure? Do you like it? Why?

Which lines do you think are most beautiful?

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

"This is the forest primeval"

"Naught but tradition remains of Grand Pre"

"List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy"

"Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven"

"Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard"

"Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith"

    The merchant's word
    Delighted the Master heard;
    For his heart was in his work, and the heart
    Giveth grace unto every Art.
    A quiet smile played round his lips,
    As the eddies and dimples of the tide
    Play round the bows of ships,
    That steadily at anchor ride.
    And with a voice that was full of glee,
    He answered, "Ere long we will launch
    A vessel as goodly, and strong, and staunch,
    As ever weathered a wintry sea!"
    And first with nicest skill and art,
    Perfect and finished in every part,
    A little model the Master wrought,
    Which should be to the larger plan
    What the child is to the man,
    Its counterpart in miniature;
    That with a hand more swift and sure
    The greater labor might be brought
    To answer to his inward thought.
    And as he labored his mind ran o'er
    The various ships that were built of yore,
    And above them all, and strangest of all,
    Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall,
    Whose picture was hanging on the wall,
    With bows and stern raised high in air,
    And balconies hanging here and there,
    And signal lanterns and flags afloat,
    And eight round towers, like those that frown
    From some old castle, looking down
    Upon the drawbridge and the moat,
    And he said, with a smile, "Our ship, I wis,
    Shall be of another form than this!"

    It was of another form, indeed;
    Built for freight, and yet for speed,
    A beautiful and gallant craft;
    Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast,
    Pressing down upon sail and mast,
    Might not the sharp bows overwhelm;
    Broad in the beam, but sloping aft
    With graceful curve and slow degrees,
    That she might be docile to the helm,
    And that the currents of parted seas,
    Closing behind, with mighty force,
    Might aid and not impede her course.

    In the ship-yard stood the Master,
        With the model of the vessel,
    That should laugh at all disaster,
        And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!

    Covering many a rood of ground,
    Lay the timber piled around;
    Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak,
    And scattered here and there, with these,
    The knarred and crooked cedar knees;
    Brought from regions far away,
    From Pascagoula's sunny bay,
    And the banks of the roaring Roanoke!
    Ah! what a wondrous thing it is
    To note how many wheels of toil
    One thought, one word, can set in motion!
    There's not a ship that sails the ocean,
    But every climate, every soil,
    Must bring its tribute, great or small,

    And help to build the wooden wall!
    The sun was rising o'er the sea,
    And long the level shadows lay,
    As if they, too, the beams would be
    Of some great, airy argosy,
    Framed and launched in a single day,
    That silent architect, the sun,
    Had hewn and laid them every one,
    Ere the work of man was yet begun.
    Beside the Master, when he spoke,
    A youth, against an anchor leaning,
    Listened, to catch his slightest meaning.
    Only the long waves, as they broke
    In ripples on the pebbly beach,
    Interrupted the old man's speech.

    Beautiful they were, in sooth,
    The old man and the fiery youth!
    The old man, in whose busy brain
    Many a ship that sailed the main
    Was modelled o'er and o'er again;--
    The fiery youth, who was to be
    The heir of his dexterity,
    The heir of his house, and his daughter's hand,
    When he had built and launched from land
    What the elder head had planned.

    "Thus," said he, "will we build this ship!
    Lay square the blocks upon the slip,
    And follow well this plan of mine.
    Choose the timbers with greatest care;
    Of all that is unsound beware;
    For only what is sound and strong
    To this vessel shall belong.
    Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine
    Here together shall combine.
    A goodly frame, and a goodly fame,
    And the UNION be her name!
    For the day that gives her to the sea
    Shall give my daughter unto thee!"

    The Master's word
    Enraptured the young man heard;
    And as he turned his face aside,
    With a look of joy and a thrill of pride,
    Standing before
    Her father's door,
    He saw the form of his promised bride.
    The sun shone on her golden hair,
    And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair,
    With the breath of morn and the soft sea air.
    Like a beauteous barge was she,
    Still at rest on the sandy beach,
    Just beyond the billow's reach;
    But he
    Was the restless, seething, stormy sea!
    Ah, how skilful grows the hand
    That obeyeth Love's command!
    It is the heart, and not the brain,
    That to the highest doth attain,
    And he who followeth Love's behest
    Far exceedeth all the rest!

    Thus with the rising of the sun
    Was the noble task begun,
    And soon throughout the ship-yard's bounds
    Were heard the intermingled sounds
    Of axes and of mallets, plied
    With vigorous arms on every side;
    Plied so deftly and so well,
    That, ere the shadows of evening fell,
    The keel of oak for a noble ship,
    Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong,
    Was lying ready, and stretched along
    The blocks, well placed upon the slip.
    Happy, thrice happy, every one
    Who sees his labor well begun,
    And not perplexed and multiplied,
    By idly waiting for time and tide!
    And when the hot, long day was o'er,
    The young man at the Master's door
    Sat with the maiden calm and still,
    And within the porch, a little more
    Removed beyond the evening chill,
    The father sat, and told them tales
    Of wrecks in the great September gales,
    Of pirates upon the Spanish Main,
    And ships that never came back again,
    The chance and change of a sailor's life,
    Want and plenty, rest and strife,
    His roving fancy, like the wind,
    That nothing can stay and nothing can bind,
    And the magic charm of foreign lands,
    With shadows of palms, and shining sands,
    Where the tumbling surf,
    O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar,
    Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar,
    As he lies alone and asleep on the turf.
    And the trembling maiden held her breath
    At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea,
    With all its terror and mystery,
    The dim dark sea, so like unto Death,
    That divides and yet unites mankind!
    And whenever the old man paused, a gleam
    From the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume
    The silent group in the twilight gloom,
    And thoughtful faces, as in a dream;
    And for a moment one might mark
    What had been hidden by the dark,
    That the head of the maiden lay at rest
    Tenderly, on the young man's breast!

    Day by day the vessel grew,
    With timbers fashioned strong and true,
    Sternson and keelson and sternson-knee,
    Till, framed with perfect symmetry,
    A skeleton ship rose up to view!
    And around the bows and along the side
    The heavy hammers and mallets plied,
    Till after many a week, at length,
    Wonderful for form and strength,
    Sublime in its enormous bulk,
    Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk!
    And around it columns of smoke, upwreathing,
    Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething,
    Cauldron, that glowed,
    And overflowed,
    With the black tar, heated for the sheathing.
    And amid the clamors
    Of clattering hammers,
    He who listened heard now and then
    The song of the Master and his men:--

    "Build me straight, O worthy Master,
        Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel,
    That shall laugh at all disaster,
        And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"

    With oaken brace and copper band,
    Lay the rudder on the sand,
    That, like a thought, should have control
    Over the movement of the whole;
    And near it the anchor, whose giant hand
    Would reach down and grapple with the land,
    And immovable and fast
    Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast!
    And at the bows an image stood,
    By a cunning artist carved in wood,
    With robes of white, that far behind
    Seemed to be fluttering in the wind.
    It was not shaped in a classic mould,
    Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old,
    Or Naiad rising from the water,
    But modeled from the Master's daughter.
    On many a dreary and misty night,
    'T will be seen by the rays of the signal light,
    Speeding along through the rain and the dark,
    Like a ghost in its snow-white sark,
    The pilot of some phantom hark,
    Guiding the vessel, in its flight,
    By a path none other knows aright!

    Behold, at last,
    Each tall and tapering mast
    Is swung into its place;
    Shrouds and stays
    Holding it firm and fast!
    Long ago,
    In the deer-haunted forests of Maine,
    When upon mountain and plain
    Lay the snow,
    They fell,--those lordly pines!
    Those grand, majestic pines!
    'Mid shouts and cheers
    The jaded steers,
    Panting beneath the goad,
    Dragged down the weary, winding road
    Those captive kings so straight and tall,
    To be shorn of their streaming hair,
    And, naked and bare,
    To feel the stress and the strain
    Of the wind and the reeling main,
    Whose roar
    Would remind them for evermore
    Of their native forests they should not see again.

    And everywhere
    The slender, graceful spars
    Poise aloft in the air,
    And at the mast-head,
    White, blue, and red,
    A flag unrolls the Stripes and Stars.
    Ah! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless,
    In foreign harbors shall behold
    That flag unrolled,
    'T will be as a friendly hand
    Stretched out from his native land,
    Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless!

    All is finished! and at length
    Has come the bridal day
    Of beauty and of strength.
    To-day the vessel shall be launched!
    With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched,
    And o'er the bay,
    Slowly, in all his splendors dight,
    The great sun rises to behold the sight.
    The ocean old,
    Centuries old,
    Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled,
    Paces restless to and fro,
    Up and down the sands of gold.
    His beating heart is not at rest;
    And far and wide,
    With ceaseless flow,
    His beard of snow
    Heaves with the heaving of his breast.

    He waits impatient for his bride.
    There she stands,
    With her foot upon the sands,
    Decked with flags and streamers gay,
    In honor of her marriage day,
    Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending,
    Bound her like a veil descending,
    Ready to be
    The bride of the gray old sea.

    On the deck another bride
    Is standing by her lover's side.
    Shadows from the flags and shrouds,
    Like the shadows cast by clouds,
    Broken by many a sunny fleck,
    Fall around them on the deck.

    The prayer is said,
    The service read,
    The joyous bridegroom bows his head;
    And in tears the good old Master
    Shakes the brown hand of his son,
    Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek
    In silence, for he cannot speak,
    And ever faster
    Down his own the tears begin to run.
    The worthy pastor--
    The shepherd of that wandering flock,
    That has the ocean for its wold,
    That has the vessel for its fold,
    Leaping ever from rock to rock--
    Spake, with accents mild and clear,
    Words of warning, words of cheer,
    But tedious to the bridegroom's ear.
    He knew the chart
    Of the sailor's heart,
    All its pleasures and its griefs,
    All its shallows and rocky reefs,
    All those secret currents, that flow
    With such resistless undertow,
    And lift and drift, with terrible force,
    The will from its moorings and its course.

    Therefore he spake, and thus said he:--
    "Like unto ships far off at sea,
    Outward or homeward bound, are we,
    Before, behind, and all around,
    Floats and swings the horizon's bound,
    Seems at its distant rim to rise
    And climb the crystal wall of the skies,
    And then again to turn and sink,
    As if we could slide from its outer brink.
    Ah! it is not the sea,
    It is not the sea that sinks and shelves,
    But ourselves
    That rock and rise
    With endless and uneasy motion,
    Now touching the very skies,
    Now sinking into the depths of ocean.
    Ah! if our souls but poise and swing
    Like the compass in its brazen ring,
    Ever level and ever true
    To the toil and the task we have to do,
    We shall sail securely, and safely reach
    The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach
    The sights we see, and the sounds we hear,
    Will be those of joy and not of fear!"

    Then the Master,
    With a gesture of command,
    Waved his hand;
    And at the word,
    Loud and sudden there was heard,
    All around them and below,
    The sound of hammers, blow on blow,
    Knocking away the shores and spurs.
    And see! she stirs!
    She starts,--she moves,--she seems to feel
    The thrill of life along her keel,
    And, spurning with her foot the ground,
    With one exulting, joyous bound,
    She leaps into the ocean's arms!

    And lo! from the assembled crowd
    There rose a shout, prolonged and loud,
    That to the ocean seemed to say,
    "Take her, Oh bridegroom, old and gray,
    Take her to thy protecting arms,
    With all her youth and all her charms!"

    How beautiful she is! How fair
    She lies within those arms, that press
    Her form with many a soft caress
    Of tenderness and watchful care!
    Sail forth into the sea, O ship!
    Through wind and wave, right onward steer!
    The moistened eye, the trembling lip,
    Are not the signs of doubt or fear.

    Sail forth into the sea of life,
    O gentle, loving, trusting wife,
    And safe from all adversity
    Upon the bosom of that sea
    Thy comings and thy goings be!
    For gentleness and love and trust
    Prevail o'er angry wave and gust;
    And in the wreck of noble lives
    Something immortal still survives!

    Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!
    Sail on, O UNION, strong and great!
    Humanity with all its fears,
    With all the hopes of future years,
    Is hanging breathless on thy fate!
    We know what Master laid thy keel,
    What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,
    Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,
    What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
    In what a forge and what a heat
    Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!
    Fear not each sudden sound and shock,
    'T is of the wave and not the rock;
    'T is but the flapping of the sail,
    And not a rent made by the gale!
    In spite of rock and tempest's roar,
    In spite of false lights on the shore,
    Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!
    Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,
    Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
    Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,
    Are all with thee,--are all with thee!

HELPS TO STUDY.

Notes and Questions.

Quote the lines that tell the kind of ship the Master is to build.

What comparison does the Master use in speaking of the model?

What does Longfellow say that one thought can do?

Explain lines 84 to 93.

Account for the name given the ship by the Master.

Describe the daughter in your own words.

Explain: "It is the heart, and not the brain, That to the highest doth attain."

Quote the song of the Master and his men.

What uses are assigned to each of the following: "the rudder," "the anchor," "the image at the bows."

Read the description of "those lordly pines."

What does Longfellow say the flag of the ship will be to the wanderer?

Longfellow comments on the marriage of the ship with the sea. Explain the figure of speech.

Memorize the pastor's words.

Describe the launching in your own words.

Have you ever seen a ship launched?

What does the building of the ship symbolize?

Memorize the apostrophe to the ship of state and explain the symbol in detail.

Find examples of alliteration.

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

    "airy argosy"
    "heir of his dexterity"
    "slip"
    "scarfed"
    "Like a beauteous barge was she"
    "moat"
    "knarred"

    Meanwhile we did our nightly chores,--
    Brought in the wood from out of doors,
    Littered the stalls, and from the mows
    Raked down the herd's-grass for the cows:
    Heard the horse whinnying for his corn;
    And, sharply clashing horn on horn,
    Impatient down the stanchion rows
    The cattle shake their walnut bows;
    While, peering from his early perch
    Upon the scaffold's pole of birch,
    The cock his crested helmet bent
    And down his querulous challenge sent
    Unwarmed by any sunset light
    The gray day darkened into night,
    A night made hoary with the swarm
    And whirl-dance of the blinding storm,
    As zigzag wavering to and fro
    Crossed and recrossed the winged snow:
    And ere the early bedtime came
    The white drift piled the window-frame,
    And through the glass the clothes-line posts
    Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts.
    So all night long the storm roared on:
    The morning broke without a sun;
    In tiny spherule traced with lines
    Of Nature's geometric signs,
    In starry flake and pellicle
    All day the hoary meteor fell;
    And, when the second morning shone,
    We looked upon a world unknown,
    On nothing we could call our own.
    Around the glistening wonder bent
    The blue walls of the firmament,
    No cloud above, no earth below,--
    A universe of sky and snow!
    The old familiar sights of ours
    Took marvelous shapes; strange domes and towers
    Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood,
    Or garden-wall or belt of wood;
    A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed,
    A fenceless drift what once was road;
    The bridle-post an old man sat
    With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat;
    The well-curb had a Chinese roof;
    And even the long sweep, high aloof,
    In its slant splendor, seemed to tell
    Of Pisa's leaning miracle.

    A prompt, decisive man, no breath
    Our father wasted: "Boys, a path!"
    Well pleased, (for when did farmer boy
    Count such a summons less than joy?)
    Our buskins on our feet we drew;
        With mittened hands, and caps drawn low,
        To guard our necks and ears from snow,
    We cut the solid whiteness through;
    And, where the drift was deepest, made
    A tunnel walled and overlaid
    With dazzling crystal: we had read
    Of rare Aladdin's wondrous cave,
    And to our own his name we gave,
    With many a wish the luck were ours
    To test his lamp's supernal powers.
    We reached the barn with merry din,
    And roused the prisoned brutes within.
    The old horse thrust his long head out,
    And grave with wonder gazed about;
    The cock his lusty greeting said,
    And forth his speckled harem led;
    The oxen lashed their tails, and hooked,
    And mild reproach of hunger looked;
    The hornÈd patriarch of the sheep,
    Like Egypt's Amun roused from sleep,
    Shook his sage head with gesture mute,
    And emphasized with stamp of foot.

    All day the gusty north-wind bore
    The loosened drift its breath before;
    Low circling round its southern zone,
    The sun through dazzling snow-mist shone.
    No church-bell lent its Christian tone
    To the savage air, no social smoke
    Curled over woods of snow-hung oak.
    A solitude made more intense
    By dreary-voicÈd elements,
    The shrieking of the mindless wind,
    The moaning tree-boughs swaying blind,
    And on the glass the unmeaning beat
    Of ghostly finger-tips of sleet.
    Beyond the circle of our hearth
    No welcome sound of toil or mirth
    Unbound the spell, and testified
    Of human life and thought outside.
    We minded that the sharpest ear
    The buried brooklet could not hear,
    The music of whose liquid lip
    Had been to us companionship,
    And, in our lonely life, had grown
    To have an almost human tone.

    As night drew on, and, from the crest
    Of wooded knolls that ridged the west,
    The sun, a snow-blown traveler, sank
    From sight beneath the smothering bank,
    We piled with care our nightly stack
    Of wood against the chimney-back,--
    The oaken log, green, huge, and thick,
    And on its top the stout back-stick;
    The knotty forestick laid apart,
    And filled between with curious art
    The ragged brush; then, hovering near,
    We watched the first red blaze appear,
    Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam
    On whitewashed wall and sagging beam,
    Until the old, rude-furnished room
    Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom;
    While radiant with a mimic flame
    Outside the sparkling drift became
    And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree
    Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free.
    The crane and pendent trammels showed,
    The Turk's heads on the andirons glowed;
    While childish fancy, prompt to tell
    The meaning of the miracle,
    Whispered the old rhyme: "Under the tree,
    When fire outdoors burns merrily,
    There the witches are making tea."

    The moon above the eastern wood
    Shone at its full; the hill-range stood
    Transfigured in the silver flood,
    Its blown snows flashing cold and keen,
    Dead white, save where some sharp ravine
    Took shadow, or the sombre green
    Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black
    Against the whiteness of their back.
    For such a world and such a night
    Most fitting that unwarming light,
    Which only seemed where'er it fell
    To make the coldness visible.

    Shut in from all the world without,
    We sat the clean-winged hearth about,
    Content to let the north-wind roar
    In baffled rage at pane and door,
    While the red logs before us beat
    The frost-line back with tropic heat;
    And ever, when a louder blast
    Shook beam and rafter as it passed,
    The merrier up its roaring draught
    The great throat of the chimney laughed,
    The house-dog on his paws outspread
    Laid to the fire his drowsy head,
    The cat's dark silhouette on the wall
    A couchant tiger's seemed to fall;
    And, for the winter fireside meet,
    Between the andirons' straddling feet,
    The mug of cider simmered slow,
    The apples sputtered in a row,
    And, close at hand, the basket stood
    With nuts from brown October's wood.

    What matter how the night behaved?
    What matter how the north-wind raved?
    Blow high, blow low, not all its snow
    Could quench our hearth-fire's ruddy glow.
    O Time and Change!--with hair as gray
    As was my sire's that winter day,
    How strange it seems, with so much gone
    Of life and love, to still live on!
    Ah, brother! only I and thou
    Are left of all that circle now,--
    The dear home faces whereupon
    That fitful firelight paled and shone.
    Henceforward, listen as we will,
    The voices of that hearth are still;
    Look where we may, the wide earth o'er,
    Those lighted faces smile no more.
    We tread the paths their feet have worn,
        We sit beneath their orchard trees,
        We hear, like them, the hum of bees
    And rustle of the bladed corn;
    We turn the pages that they read,
        Their written words we linger o'er,
    But in the sun they cast no shade,
    No voice is heard, no sign is made,
        No step is on the conscious floor!
    Yet Love will dream and Faith will trust
    (Since He who knows our need is just)
    That somehow, somewhere, meet we must.
    Alas for him who never sees
    The stars shine through his cypress-trees!
    Who, hopeless, lays his dead away,
    Nor looks to see the breaking day
    Across the mournful marbles play!
    Who hath not learned, in hours of faith,
        The truth to flesh and sense unknown,
    That Life is ever lord of Death,
        And Love can never lose its own!

    We sped the time with stories old,
    Wrought puzzles out, and riddles told,
    Or stammered from our school-book lore
    "The chief of Gambia's golden shore."
    Our father rode again his ride
    On Memphremagog's wooded side;
    Sat down again to moose and samp
    In trapper's hut and Indian camp;
    Lived o'er the old idyllic ease
    Beneath St. FranÇois' hemlock trees;
    Again for him the moonlight shone
    On Norman cap and bodiced zone;
    Again he heard the violin play
    Which led the village dance away,
    And mingled in its merry whirl
    The grandam and the laughing girl.
    Or, nearer home, our steps he led
    Where Salisbury's level marshes spread
        Mile-wide as flies the laden bee;
    Where merry mowers, hale and strong,
    Swept, scythe on scythe, their swaths along
        The low green prairies of the sea.
    We shared the fishing off Boar's Head,
        And round the rocky Isles of Shoals
        The hake-broil on the driftwood coals;
    The chowder on the sand-beach made,
    Dipped by the hungry, steaming hot,
    With spoons of clam-shell from the pot.
    We heard the tales of witchcraft old,
    And dream and sign and marvel told
    To sleepy listeners as they lay
    Stretched idly on the salted hay,
    Adrift along the winding shores,
        When favoring breezes deigned to blow
        The square sail of the gundalow,
    And idle lay the useless oars.
    Our mother, while she turned her wheel
    Or run the new-knit stocking-heel,
    Told how the Indian hordes came down
    At midnight on Cochecho town,
    And how her own great-uncle bore
    His cruel scalp-mark to fourscore.
    Recalling, in her fitting phrase,
        So rich and picturesque and free
      (The common unrhymed poetry
    Of simple life and country ways),
    The story of her early days,--
    She made us welcome to her home;
    Old hearths grew wide to give us room;
    We stole with her a frightened look
    At the gray wizard's conjuring-book,
    The fame whereof went far and wide
    Through all the simple country-side;
    We heard the hawks at twilight play,
    The boat-horn on Piscataqua,
    The loon's weird laughter far away;

    We fished her little trout-brook, knew
    What flowers in wood and meadow grew,
    What sunny hillsides autumn-brown
    She climbed to shake the ripe nuts down,
    Saw where in sheltered cove and bay
    The ducks' black squadron anchored lay,
    And heard the wild geese calling loud
    Beneath the gray November cloud.
    Then, haply, with a look more grave,
    And soberer tone, some tale she gave
    From painful Sewel's ancient tome,
    Beloved in every Quaker home,
    Of faith fire-winged by martyrdom,
    Or Chalkley's Journal, old and quaint,--
    Gentlest of skippers, rare sea-saint!--
    Who, when the dreary calms prevailed,
    And water-butt and bread-cask failed,
    And cruel, hungry eyes pursued
    His portly presence, mad for food,
    With dark hints muttered under breath
    Of casting lots for life or death,
    Offered, if Heaven withheld supplies,
    To be himself the sacrifice.
    Then, suddenly, as if to save
    The good man from his living grave,
    A ripple on the water grew,
    A school of porpoise flashed in view.
    "Take, eat," he said, "and be content;
    These fishes in my stead are sent
    By Him who gave the tangled ram
    To spare the child of Abraham."

    Our uncle, innocent of books,
    Was rich in lore of fields and brooks,
    The ancient teachers never dumb
    Of Nature's unhoused lyceum.
    In moons and tides and weather wise,
    He read the clouds as prophecies,
    And foul or fair could well divine,
    By many an occult hint and sign,
    Holding the cunning-warded keys
    To all the woodcraft mysteries;
    Himself to Nature's heart so near
    That all her voices in his ear
    Of beast or bird had meanings clear,
    Like Apollonius of old,
    Who knew the tales the sparrows told,
    Or Hermes, who interpreted
    What the sage cranes of Nilus said;
    A simple, guileless, childlike man,
    Content to live where life began;
    Strong only on his native grounds,
    The little world of sights and sounds
    Whose girdle was the parish bounds,
    Whereof his fondly partial pride
    The common features magnified,
    As Surrey hills to mountains grew
    In White of Selborne's loving view,--
    He told how teal and loon he shot,
    And how the eagle's eggs he got,
    The feats on pond and river done,
    The prodigies of rod and gun;
    Till, warming with the tales he told,
    Forgotten was the outside cold,
    The bitter wind unheeded blew,
    From ripening corn the pigeons flew,
    The partridge drummed i' the wood, the mink
    Went fishing down the river-brink.
    In fields with bean or clover gay,
    The woodchuck, like a hermit gray,
        Peered from the doorway of his cell;
    The muskrat plied the mason's trade,
    And tier by tier his mud-walls laid;
    And from the shagbark overhead
        The grizzled squirrel dropped his shell.

    Next, the dear aunt, whose smile of cheer
    And voice in dreams I see and hear,--
    The sweetest woman ever Fate
    Perverse denied a household mate,
    Who, lonely, homeless, not the less
    Found peace in love's unselfishness,
    And welcome whereso'er she went,
    A calm and gracious element,
    Whose presence seemed the sweet income
    And womanly atmosphere of home,--
    Called up her girlhood memories,
    The huskings and the apple-bees,
    The sleigh-rides and the summer sails,
    Weaving through all the poor details
    And homespun warp of circumstance
    A golden woof-thread of romance.
    For well she kept her genial mood
    And simple faith of maidenhood;
    Before her still a cloud-land lay,
    The mirage loomed across her way;
    The morning dew, that dried so soon
    With others, glistened at her noon;
    Through years of toil and soil and care,
    From glossy tress to thin gray hair,
    All unprofaned she held apart
    The virgin fancies of the heart.
    Be shame to him of woman born
    Who had for such but thought of scorn.

    There, too, our elder sister plied
    Her evening task the stand beside;
    A full, rich nature, free to trust,
    Truthful and almost sternly just,
    Impulsive, earnest, prompt to act,
    And make her generous thought a fact,
    Keeping with many a light disguise
    The secret of self-sacrifice.
    O heart sore-tried! thou hast the best
    That Heaven itself could give thee,--rest,
    Rest from all bitter thoughts and things!
        How many a poor one's blessing went
        With thee beneath the low green tent
    Whose curtain never outward swings!

    As one who held herself a part
    Of all she saw, and let her heart
        Against the household bosom lean,
    Upon the motley-braided mat
    Our youngest and our dearest sat,
    Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes,
    Now bathed within the fadeless green
    And holy peace of Paradise.
    Oh, looking from some heavenly hill,
        Or from the shade of saintly palms,
        Or silver reach of river calms,
    Do those large eyes behold me still?
    With me one little year ago:--
    The chill weight of the winter snow
        For months upon her grave has lain;
    And now, when summer south-winds blow
        And brier and harebell bloom again,
    I tread the pleasant paths we trod,
    I see the violet-sprinkled sod,
    Whereon she leaned, too frail and weak
    The hillside flowers she loved to seek,
    Yet following me where'er I went
    With dark eyes full of love's content.
    The birds are glad; the brier-rose fills
    The air with sweetness; all the hills
    Stretch green to June's unclouded sky;
    But still I wait with ear and eye
    For something gone which should be nigh,
    A loss in all familiar things,
    In flower that blooms, and bird that sings.
    And yet, dear heart! remembering thee,
        Am I not richer than of old?
    Safe in thy immortality,
        What change can reach the wealth I hold?
        What chance can mar the pearl and gold
    Thy love hath left in trust with me?
    And while in life's late afternoon,
        Where cool and long the shadows grow,
    I walk to meet the night that soon
        Shall shape and shadow overflow,
    I cannot feel that thou art far,
    Since near at need the angels are;
    And when the sunset gates unbar,
        Shall I not see thee waiting stand,
    And, white against the evening star,
    The welcome of thy beckoning hand?