The World's Best Poetry, Volume 09: Of Tragedy: of Humour

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Title: The World's Best Poetry, Volume 09: Of Tragedy: of Humour

Editor: Bliss Carman

Contributor: Francis Barton Gummere

Release date: July 15, 2013 [eBook #43223]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORLD'S BEST POETRY, VOLUME 09: OF TRAGEDY: OF HUMOUR ***

_THE WORLD'S_
_BEST POETRY_

[Illustration]

_I Home: Friendship_ _VI Fancy: Sentiment_

_II Love_ _VII Descriptive: Narrative_

_III Sorrow and Consolation_ _VIII National Spirit_

_IV The Higher Life_ _IX Tragedy: Humor_

_V Nature_ _X Poetical Quotations_

_THE WORLD'S BEST POETRY_
_IN TEN VOLUMES, ILLUSTRATED_

_Editor-in-Chief BLISS CARMAN_

_Associate Editors_
_John Vance Cheney Charles G. D. Roberts_
_Charles F. Richardson Francis H. Stoddard_

_Managing Editor: John R. Howard_

[Illustration]

_JOHN D. MORRIS AND COMPANY PHILADELPHIA_

[Illustration: JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE.
_Photogravure after portrait by Stieler._]

_The World's Best Poetry_
_Vol. IX_

_Of TRAGEDY:_
_of HUMOR_

_THE OLD CASE OF_
_POETRY_
_IN A NEW COURT_

_By_
_FRANCIS A. GUMMERE_

[Illustration]

_JOHN D. MORRIS AND COMPANY_
_PHILADELPHIA_

NOTICE OF COPYRIGHTS.

American poems in this volume within the legal protection of copyright
are used by the courteous permission of the owners,--either the
publishers named in the following list or the authors or their
representatives in the subsequent one,--who reserve all their rights. So
far as practicable, permission has been secured, also for poems out of
copyright.

PUBLISHERS OF THE WORLD'S BEST POETRY.
1904.

The BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY, Indianapolis.--F. L. STANTON:
"Plantation Ditty."

The CENTURY CO., New York.--_I. Russell_: "De Fust Banjo,"
"Nebuchadnezzar."

Messrs. HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.--_W. A. Butler_:
"Nothing to Wear;" _Will Carleton_: "The New Church Organ."

Messrs. HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO., Boston.--_W. H. Brownell_:
"Lawyer's Invocation to Spring;" _J. T. Fields_: "The
Nantucket Skipper;" _Bret Harte_: "Dow's Flat," "Jim,"
"Plain Language from Truthful James," "To the Pliocene
Skull," "Ramon," "The Society upon the Stanislaus;" _J.
Hay_: "Banty Tim," "Jim Bludso," "Little Breeches;" _O. W.
Holmes_: "Ode for a Social Meeting," "One-Horse Shay,"
"Rudolph the Headsman;" _H. W. Longfellow_: "The Wreck of
the Hesperus;" _J. R. Lowell_: "America," "The Grave-Yard,"
"What Mr. Robinson Thinks;" _J. J. Roche_: "The V-A-S-E;" C.
Scollard: "Khamsin."

The J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, Philadelphia.--_G. H. Boker_:
"Countess Laura."

Mr. DAVID MACKAY, Philadelphia.--_C. G. Leland_: "Hans
Breitmann's Party," "Ritter Hugo."

Messrs. CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, New York.--_R. Bridges
(Droch)_: "For a Novel of Hall Caine's."

Messrs. SMALL, MAYNARD & CO., Boston.--_Charlotte Perkins
Gilman_: "A Conservative."

II.

American poems in this volume by the authors whose names are given below
are the copyrighted property of the authors, or of their representatives
named in parenthesis, and may not be reprinted without their permission,
which for the present work has been courteously granted.

PUBLISHERS OF THE WORLD'S BEST POETRY.
1904.

_C. F. Adams_; _C. T. Brooks_ (Mrs. Harriet Lyman Brooks);
_F. G. Burgess_; _R. W. Chambers_;
_N. H. Dole_; _S. W. Foss_;
_I. Wallace_; _J. W. Riley_.

[Transcriber Note:
The oe ligature has been replaced with the simple "oe" in
this version. ]

THE OLD CASE OF POETRY IN A NEW COURT.

BY FRANCIS BARTON GUMMERE.

Although hailed as queen of the arts and hedged about by a kind of
divinity, Poetry seems to sit on an always tottering throne. In nearly
every age known to human records, some one has chronicled his
forebodings that the days of Poetry were numbered; and again the critic,
or the Poet himself, has plucked up his courage and uttered a fairly
hopeful defence. Yet even this hope has been absent from periods which
now seem poetic in the highest degree. Michael Drayton could find scant
consolation for his art, dedicating certain poems to gentlemen who "in
these declining times.... love and cherish neglected poesy." The enemies
of poetry are always alert, and often come disguised as friends. When,
at the end of the Middle Ages, moralists ceased to attack the poets,
there appeared the man of science, a far more formidable person; and,
under cover of the dust and smoke in strong battle waged between these
open foes, poetry has been spoiled of one cherished possession after
another at the hands of a professedly ardent ally. Horace Walpole's
alternative neatly implied the whole question under debate: "Poetry,"
he complained, "is gone to bed, or into our prose,"--an odd speech for
one who helped to ring the romantic rising-bell. Bulwer, writing
ponderously "On Certain Principles of Art in Works of the Imagination,"
was sure that Prose had come to be the only medium of artistic
narrative. Malicious people point even now to a language which never had
any prose, and yet has lost its splendid heritage of verse: barring
Grillparzer, silent long before his death, Germany has not seen a poet
for the last fifty years. But, answers the optimist, who knows what
_ambulando_ argument for poetry is not now preparing somewhere in the
fatherland? And as for Bulwer, his ink was hardly dry when Tennyson
began those charming and miscalled Idylls of the King. If epic poetry
seems dead just now, it seemed quite as dead four hundred years ago in
France. So this harmless war is waged. What comes of it all? What has
been done? What progress? Other causes come up, find a hearing on the
evidence, get a verdict more or less in agreement with facts, and go
upon record; this case lies hopeless in chancery. Why must it wait
there, along with all the old metaphysical questions, for a decision
that never can be handed down? If one may do nothing else, one may at
least take the case to a different court, demand fresh evidence, and
appeal to another code of laws.

Before all things, it behooves both parties to this argument to come at
the facts in the case.

Barring a threat or so of historical treatment, as in Macaulay's famous
essay on Milton, writers who handle this matter of the decline of poetry
invariably pass either into critical discussion of more or less value in
itself, or else into amiable hysterics. To speak brutal truth, hysterics
are preferred, and little else is recognized. It is all very well to say
that the study of poetry has been put on a scientific basis; the mass of
readers who are interested in poetry, the mass of reviewers,--and one
finds this true in quite unexpected quarters,--care for no scientific
basis at all. In other words, they exclude from their study of poetry a
good half of the facts of poetry.

In any living science one begins by finding and grouping all the facts,
high and low alike; and one then proceeds to establish the relations of
these facts on lines of record and comparison. The facts of poetry
should be conterminous with the whole range of poetic material; and when
one faces this material, one has to do with an element in human life,
although the ordinary writer seems to think that he degrades his subject
by taking such an attitude. He searches for the cause and fact of poetry
in a sphere outside of human life, removed from ordinary human
conditions, and touching only an infinitesimal part of the sum of poetic
material. True, there is nothing nobler than the effort to reckon with
great poetry, and competent critics who succeed in this must always hold
a conspicuous place in letters; but great poetry and the great critic
are not all. Poetry, high or low, as product of a human impulse and as
a constant element in the life of man, belongs to that history which has
been defined of late as "concrete sociology"--the study of human society
itself; and it is on this ground, and not in criticism, that the
question of the decline of poetry must be asked and answered.

The task of poetics, as yet almost untried, is to make clear the
relations between higher and lower forms. Like war, marriage, worship,
magic, personal adornment, and a dozen other institutions of this sort,
poetry is an element in human life which seems to go back to the
beginnings of society. Trustworthy writers even say it was one of the
more conspicuous factors in the making of society; and when one is asked
whether poetry, that is, emotional rhythmic utterances, must be regarded
as a decreasing factor in contemporary social progress, one faces a
question of sociological as well as of literary interest, and one must
answer it on broader ground than biographical criticism, in clearer
terms than can be furnished by those old hysterics about genius. To
treat the question as it is almost invariably treated, to make it an
ingenious speculation whether any more great poets can arise under our
modern conditions, whether Goethe, if he were born now, would not be
simply a great naturalist, and whether Robert Browning or Huxley better
solved the riddle of the painful earth,--all this is to keep up an
unwholesome separation of poetics from vital and moving sciences, and to
make the discussion itself mere chatter.

The advantage in this sociological study of poetry is that it can keep
abreast of other sciences. The oars dip into actual water, the boat
moves, whether with the current of opinion or against it, and the
landscape changes for one's pains; anything is better than the old
rowing-machines, or rather than the theatrical imitation of a boat, with
the sliding scenery and the spectators that pay to be fooled. Moreover,
it is wide scientific work, not laboratory methods, so called, like
countings of words, curves of expression, and all such pleasant devices
that rarely mount above the mechanical in method and the wholly external
in results; in sociological poetics one is dealing with the life of the
race and with the heart of man. F. Schlegel's famous word about art in
general holds firm here; the science of poetry is the history of poetry,
history in its widest and deepest sense. The futile character of poetic
studies springs from that fatal ease with which a powerful thinker sets
down thoughts about poetry, and from the reluctance to under-take such
hard work as confronts even our powerful thinker when he is minded to
know the facts. To get the wide outlook, one must climb; to get the deep
insight, one must analyze and order and compare. Now the pity of it is
that this outlook and this insight, this appreciation of a masterpiece
and this knowledge of the vast material of which it is part, are not
only rarely achieved in themselves, but are seldom if ever united. The
great poems are studied apart; and as a group, more or less stable, they
form what is known as poetry. Detached from the mass of verse, and so
from the social medium where all poetry begins and grows, they are
referred to those conditions of genius which can tell at best but half
the tale; while that very mass of verse which one concedes to the social
group, that unregarded rhythmic utterance of field and festival in which
communal emotion--the agitating joys and sorrows of the common
people--found and still finds vent, is left as a fad of ethnologists and
folk-lore societies. But the material thus divided belongs together;
each half should explain the other half; and such an unscientific
rejection of material must take poetics hopelessly out of the running.

This plea for a more comprehensive range of material holds good not only
in the discussion of poetry in general, its origins, history, future,
but in the study of the great poem itself. Take something that every one
reads, and even Macaulay's schoolboy studies--the Lycidas of Milton.
Reader, critic, biographer, have long since come to terms with the poem;
it stirs heart and mind, it belongs to the masterpieces, it voices the
genius of Milton, it echoes Puritan England. Here one usually stops; but
here one should not stop. Lycidas, as a poem, is the outcome of human
emotion in long reaches of social progress; it is primarily a poem of
grief for the dead, a link in that chain of evolution in rhythmic
utterance which leads from wild gestures and inarticulate cries up to
the stately march of Milton's verse and the higher mood of his thought.
So far from degrading one's conception of great poetry, the comparison
of rough communal verse should throw into strongest relief the dignity
and the majesty of a poet's art. One has taken this poet from his
parochial limits, and set him strongly lighted, at the front of a great
stage, with its dim background full of half-seen, strangely moving
figures; his song is now detached from a vast chorus of human
lamentation, and now sinks back into it as into its source. In certain
great elegies, as also in the hymeneal, this chorus actually lingers as
a refrain. True, the individuals of the chorus are seldom interesting in
themselves. The black fellow of Australia shall not soothe our grief
with his howlings for his dead, nor even the Corsican widow with her
_vocero_. But the chorus as chorus is impressive enough; it is a part of
the piece; heard or unheard, it belongs with the triumphs of individual
art. Somewhere in every great poem lurks this legacy of communal song.
It may better be called the silent partner, without whose capital, at
the least, no poet can now trade in Parnassian ware; and as for lyric
verse, there the partner is not even silent. All amorous lyric, whether
of German Walther or of Roman Catullus, holds an echo of festal throngs
singing and dancing at the May. The troubadours come down to us with
proud names, yet they are only spokesmen of an aristocratic guild; and
this again was but a sifting and a refinement of the throngs which
danced about their _regine Avrillouse_ a thousand years ago. It was once
lad and lass in the crowd; it comes to be lover and high-born dame at
daybreak, with a warning from the watcher on the castle walls; then that
vogue passes, with all its songs that seem to sing themselves; the
situation has grown deplorably unconventional, and the note is false.
Amorous lyric waxes mere grave, taking on a new privacy of utterance,
and a new individuality of tone. It is now the subtle turn of thought,
and not the cadence of festal passion, which sets off Lovelace's one
perfect song from all its kind; yet, without that throb of passion, that
rhythm as of harmonious steps, one of them a piece of human nature, and
the other a legacy from the throng, Lovelace had never made his verses
and there would be no lyric in the world.

Poetry is thus a genesis in the throng, then an exodus with the solitary
poet, then--though this is too often forgotten--a return to the throng.
At least it is so with the great poets. Not the poet, but the
verse-smith, the poetaster, is anxious to deny his parentage in communal
song, and to set for his excellent differences. He will daze the editor
and force his way into the magazine by tricks of expression, a new
adjective, a shock of strange collocations. In a steamboat on the Baltic
I once met a confidential soul who told me of his baffled designs upon
the vogue of modern fiction. He had written, it seemed, a novel without
a woman in it; and he had printed this novel in red ink. "And I am not
famous yet," he sighed. So with one kind of minor poet. He works through
eccentricities and red ink. He is like Jean Paul's army chaplain
Schmelzle, who, when a boy in church, was so often tempted to rise and
cry aloud, "Here am I, too, Mr. Parson!" It is not so with the great
poets, not so even with those poets whom one may not call great, but
who know how to touch the popular heart. All the masters, Homer,
Shakespeare, Goethe, even Dante, win their greatest triumphs by coming
back to simplicity in form and diction as to the source of all poetic
expression. Or, to put it more scientifically, in any masterpiece one
will find the union of individual genius with that harmony of voices and
sympathy of hearts achieved by long ages of poetic evolution working in
the social mass.

If such a range of poetic material is needed even in criticism, how
strictly must it be demanded in any question about the art as a whole!
One may turn from history to prophecy; but poetry must still be studied
even more rigidly in its full range and with regard to all human
elements in the case. Because the communal elements, once so plain and
insistent, now elude all but the most searching gaze, that is no reason
for leaving them out of the account. Hennequin saw that simply for
critical purposes one must reckon not only with the maker of poetry, but
with the consumer as well; and the student of poetry at large must go
still farther. It is after all only a remnant who choose and enjoy great
poetry, just as it is only a remnant who follow righteousness in private
life and probity in civic standards.

But what of the cakes and ale? What of the uncritical folk? What stands
now, since people have come indoors, for the old ring of dancers, the
old songs of May and Harvest Home? Does the lapse of these mean a lapse
in poetry at large? Or what has taken their place? How shall one
dispose of the room over a village store, the hot stove, the folk in
Sunday dress, and the young woman who draws tears down the very grocer's
cheek as she "renders" Curfew Shall Not Ring To-Night? What of the
never-ending crop of songs in street and concert-hall, and on the
football field, verses that still time the movements of labor and the
steps of a marching crowd? What of homely, comfortable poetry, too,
commonplace perhaps, but dear to declaiming youth? Only a staff cut from
Sophoclean timber will support your lonely dreamer as he makes his way
over the marl; but the common citizen, who does most of the world's
work, and who has more to do with the future of poetry than a critic
will concede, finds his account in certain smooth, didactic, and mainly
cheerful verses which appear in the syndicate newspapers, and will never
attain a magazine or an anthology. If singing throngs keep rhythm alive,
it is this sort of poets that must both make and mend the paths of
genius. Commonplace is a poor word. Horace gives one nothing else; but a
legion of critics shall not keep us from Horace, and even Matthew
Arnold, critic as he was, fell back for his favorite poem on that
seventh ode of the fourth book,--as arrant commonplace as Gray's Elegy
itself. Members of a Browning society have been known to descend
earthward by reading Longfellow. If minor poets and obvious, popular
poems ever disappear, and if crowds ever go dumb, then better and best
poetry itself will be dead as King Pandion. No "Absent-Minded Beggar,"
no "Recessional."

Whoever, then, will tell the truth about poetry's part in the world of
to-day and to-morrow must not only know the course of all poetry through
all the yesterdays, but must keep all its present manifestations, all
its elements, sources, and allies at his command. Not only the lords of
verse are to advise him; he shall take counsel with scullions and
potboys. It is that poet in every man, about whom Sainte-Beuve
discoursed, who can best tell of the future of poetry. The enormous heed
paid to the great and solitary poets, as if there could be a poet
without audience or reader, has distorted our vision until we think of
poetry as a quite solitary performance, a refuge from the world. Is not
poetry really a flight from self and solitude to at least a
conventional, imaginative society? Poetry by its very form is a
convention, an echo of social consent; with its aid one may forget
personal debit and credit in the great account of humanity. Now, as in
the beginning, poetry is essentially social; its future is largely a
social problem. How far, then, has man ceased to sing in crowds, and
taken to thinking by himself? What is the shrinkage, quality as well as
quantity, in the proportion of verse to prose since the invention of
printing? Is the loss of so much communal song in daily toil, in daily
merriment, like the cutting away of those forests which hold the rains
and supply the great rivers?

Waiting for complete and trustworthy studies of humanity which shall
answer some of those queries, one may venture an opinion on the general
case. Just as one feels that forests may vanish, and yet in some way
the mighty watercourses must be fed, so with poetry. Nothing has yet
been found to take the place of rhythm as sign of social consent, the
union of steps and voices in common action; and whatever intellectual or
spiritual consolation may reach the lonely thinker, emotion still drives
him back upon the sympathy of man with man.

Human sympathy is thus at the heart of every poetic utterance, whether
humble or great; rhythm is its outward and visible, once audible sign;
and poetry, from this point of view, would therefore seem to be an
enduring element in our life.

F. B. Gummere.

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTORY ESSAY:
"THE OLD CASE OF POETRY IN A NEW COURT." PAGE
By _Francis Barton Gummere_ ix

POEMS OF TRAGEDY:

GREECE AND ROME 3
THE ORIENT 26
GERMANY 44
ITALY: SPAIN 55
SWITZERLAND: RUSSIA 88
SCOTLAND: IRELAND: ENGLAND 120
AMERICA 172
THE SEA 181

HUMOROUS POEMS:

WOMAN 197
MISCELLANEOUS 239
PARODIES: IMITATIONS 396
INGENUITIES: ODDITIES 426

INDEX: AUTHORS AND TITLES 461

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE. _Frontispiece_
_Photogravure after a photograph from a portrait
by Stieler._
PAGE

FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 1
_Dante's tale of the unhappy lovers whom he saw
in the realm of shades will live in poetry and
art. This color-plate, from the painting by
A. Cabanel, shows their tragic death at the
hand of the enraged brother._

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 8
_From an engraving after the portrait by C. L. Elliott._

THE DIVER 44
"Hark! a shriek from the crowd rang aloud from the shore,
And behold! he is whirled in the grasp of the main."

_From photogravure after a drawing by A. Michaelis._

ROBERT BROWNING 102
_After a life-photograph by Elliott and Fry, London._

THE FATAL COAST-TIDE 145
"The old sea-wall (he cried) is down!
The rising tide comes on apace."

_From photogravure by Braun, Clement & Co.,
after a painting by G. Haquette._

THE BATTLE OF THE NILE 184
"There came a burst of thunder-sound;
The boy--Oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea."

_From engraving after the painting by George Arnald, A. R. A._

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 192
_After a life-photograph by Sarony, New York._

THE PRESS-GANG 271
"But as they fetched a walk one day,
They met a press-gang crew;
And Sally she did faint away,
Whilst Ben he was brought to."

_From engraving after a painting by Alexander Johnston._

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 345
_After a photogravure from life-photograph by Notman, Boston._

BRET HARTE 374
_From a photogravure after the original portrait by J. Pettie._

[Illustration: FRANCESCA DA RIMINI.]

The tale of the fated lovers, Francesca and Paolo, whose fleeting
spirits Dante saw in his visit to the realms of the dead, will always
live in poetry and in art. His brief story of their approach in mutual
sympathy, over the reading of a book, is given in our second volume: the
scene of their tragic death at the hand of her enraged husband is the
subject of this painting by ALEXANDRE CABANEL, the French artist.

[Illustration]

POEMS OF TRAGEDY.

IPHIGENEIA AND AGAMEMNON.

Iphigeneia, when she heard her doom
At Aulis, and when all beside the king
Had gone away, took his right hand, and said:
"O father! I am young and very happy.
I do not think the pious Calchas heard
Distinctly what the goddess spake; old age
Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who knew
My voice so well, sometimes misunderstood,
While I was resting on her knee both arms,
And hitting it to make her mind my words,
And looking in her face, and she in mine,
Might not he, also, hear one word amiss,
Spoken from so far off, even from Olympus?"
The father placed his cheek upon her head,
And tears dropt down it; but the king of men
Replied not. Then the maiden spake once more:
"O father! sayest thou nothing? Hearest thou not
Me, whom thou ever hast, until this hour,
Listened to fondly, and awakened me
To hear my voice amid the voice of birds,
When it was inarticulate as theirs,
And the down deadened it within the nest?"
He moved her gently from him, silent still;
And this, and this alone, brought tears from her,
Although she saw fate nearer. Then with sighs:
"I thought to have laid down my hair before
Benignant Artemis, and not dimmed
Her polished altar with my virgin blood;
I thought to have selected the white flowers
To please the nymphs, and to have asked of each
By name, and with no sorrowful regret,
Whether, since both my parents willed the change,
I might at Hymen's feet bend my clipt brow;
And (after these who mind us girls the most)
Adore our own Athene, that she would
Regard me mildly with her azure eyes,--
But, father, to see you no more, and see
Your love, O father! go ere I am gone!"
Gently he moved her off, and drew her back,
Bending his lofty head far over hers;
And the dark depths of nature heaved and burst.
He turned away,--not far, but silent still.
She now first shuddered; for in him, so nigh,
So long a silence seemed the approach of death,
And like it. Once again she raised her voice:
"O father! if the ships are now detained,
And all your vows move not the gods above,
When the knife strikes me there will be one prayer
The less to them; and purer can there be
Any, or more fervent, than the daughter's prayer
For her dear father's safety and success?"
A groan that shook him shook not his resolve.
An aged man now entered, and without
One word stepped slowly on, and took the wrist
Of the pale maiden. She looked up, and saw
The fillet of the priest and calm, cold eyes.
Then turned she where her parent stood, and cried:
"O father! grieve no more; the ships can sail."

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

THE SACRIFICE OF POLYXENA.

FROM "HECUBA."

[It had been determined by the victorious Greeks to
sacrifice Polyxena, the daughter of Priam, King of Ilium,
and his wife Hecuba, on the tomb of the slain Achilleus.
Odysseus, sent by the Greeks to fetch the maiden, turned a
deaf ear to the entreaties of the mother, and Polyxena
herself addresses the Greek:]

"I see thee, how beneath thy robe, O King,
Thy hand is hidden, thy face turned from mine,
Lest I should touch thee by the beard and pray:
Fear not: thou hast escaped the god of prayers
For my part. I will rise and follow thee,
Driven by strong need; yea, and not loth to die.
Lo! if I should not seek death, I were found
A cowardly, life-loving, selfish soul!
For why should I live? Was my sire not King
Of all broad Phrygia? Thus my life began;
Then I was nurtured on fair bloom of hope
To be the bride of kings; no small the suit,
I ween, of lovers seeking me: thus I
Was once--ah, woe is me! of Idan dames
Mistress and queen, 'mid maidens like a star
Conspicuous, peer of gods, except for death;
And now I am a slave: this name alone
Makes me in love with death--so strange it is."

[Later in the drama follows the account of the heroic death
of Polyxena, described to the unhappy Hecuba by the herald
Talthybius.]

"The whole vast concourse of the Achaian host
Stood round the tomb to see your daughter die.
Achilleus' son, taking her by the hand,
Placed her upon the mound, and I stayed near;
And youths, the flower of Greece, a chosen few,
With hands to check thy heifer, should she bound,
Attended. From a cup of carven gold,
Raised full of wine, Archilleus' son poured forth
Libation to his sire, and bade me sound
Silence throughout the whole Achaian host.
I, standing there, cried in the midst these words:--
'Silence, Achaians! let the host be still!
Hush, hold your voices!' Breathless stayed the crowd;
But he:--'O son of Peleus, father mine,
Take these libations pleasant to thy soul,
Draughts that allure the dead: come, drink the black
Pure maiden's blood wherewith the host and I
Sue thee: be kindly to us; loose our prows,
And let our barks go free; give safe return
Homeward from Troy to all, and happy voyage,'
Such words he spake, and the crowd prayed assent.
Then from the scabbard, by its golden hilt,
He drew the sword, and to the chosen youths
Signalled that they should bring the maid; but she,
Knowing her hour was come, spake thus, and said:
'O men of Argos, who have sacked my town,
Lo, of free will I die! Let no man touch
My body: boldly will I stretch my throat.
Nay, but I pray you set me free, then slay;
That free I thus may perish: 'mong the dead,
Being a queen, I blush to be called slave.'
The people shouted, and King Agamemnon
Bade the youths loose the maid, and set her free;
She, when she heard the order of the chiefs,
Seizing her mantle, from the shoulder down
To the soft centre of her snowy waist
Tore it, and showed her breasts and bosom fair
As in a statue. Bending then with knee
On earth, she spake a speech most piteous:--
'See you this breast, O youth? If breast you will,
Strike it; take heart: or if beneath my neck,
Lo! here my throat is ready for your sword!'
He, willing not, yet willing,--pity-stirred
In sorrow for the maiden,--with his blade
Severed the channels of her breath: blood flowed;
And she, though dying, still had thought to fall
In seemly wise, hiding what eyes should see not.
But when she breathed her life out from the blow,
Then was the Argive host in divers way
Of service parted; for some, bringing leaves,
Strewed them upon the corpse; some piled a pyre,
Dragging pine trunks and boughs; and he who bore none,
Heard from the bearers many a bitter word:--
'Standest thou, villain? hast thou then no robe,
No funeral honors for the maid to bring?
Wilt thou not go and get for her who died
Most nobly, bravest-souled, some gift?' Thus they
Spake of thy child in death:--O thou most blessed
Of women in thy daughter, most undone!"

From the Greek of EURIPIDES.
Translation of JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.

PARRHASIUS.

There stood an unsold captive in the mart,
A gray-haired and majestical old man,
Chained to a pillar. It was almost night,
And the last seller from the place had gone,
And not a sound was heard but of a dog
Crunching beneath the stall a refuse bone,
Or the dull echo from the pavement rung,
As the faint captive changed his weary feet.
He had stood there since morning, and had borne
From every eye in Athens the cold gaze
Of curious scorn. The Jew had taunted him
For an Olynthian slave. The buyer came
And roughly struck his palm upon his breast,
And touched his unhealed wounds, and with a sneer
Passed on; and when, with weariness o'erspent,
He bowed his head in a forgetful sleep,
The inhuman soldier smote him, and, with threats
Of torture to his children, summoned back
The ebbing blood into his pallid face.

'T was evening, and the half-descended sun
Tipped with a golden fire the many domes
Of Athens, and a yellow atmosphere
Lay rich and dusky in the shaded street
Through which the captive gazed. He had borne up
With a stout heart that long and weary day,
Haughtily patient of his many wrongs,
But now he was alone, and from his nerves

[Illustration: NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.
_From an engraving of the portrait by C. L. Elliott._]

The needless strength departed, and he leaned
Prone on his massy chain, and let his thoughts
Throng on him as they would. Unmarked of him
Parrhasius at the nearest pillar stood,
Gazing upon his grief. The Athenian's cheek
Flushed as he measured with a painter's eye
The moving picture. The abandoned limbs,
Stained with the oozing blood, were laced with veins
Swollen to purple fulness; the gray hair,
Thin and disordered, hung about his eyes;
And as a thought of wilder bitterness
Rose in his memory, his lips grew white,
And the fast workings of his bloodless face
Told what a tooth of fire was at his heart.

The golden light into the painter's room
Streamed richly, and the hidden colors stole
From the dark pictures radiantly forth,
And in the soft and dewy atmosphere
Like forms and landscapes magical they lay.
The walls were hung with armor, and about
In the dim corners stood the sculptured forms
Of Cytheris, and Dian, and stern Jove,
And from the casement soberly away
Fell the grotesque long shadows, full and true,
And like a veil of filmy mellowness,
The lint-specks floated in the twilight air.
Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully
Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay,
Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus--
The vulture at his vitals, and the links
Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh;
And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim,
Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows forth
With its far reaching fancy, and with form
And color clad them, his fine, earnest eye
Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl
Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip
Were like the winged god's breathing from his flight.

"Bring me the captive now!
My hand feels skilful, and the shadows lift
From my waked spirit airily and swift,
And I could paint the bow
Upon the bended heavens--around me play
Colors of such divinity to-day.

"Ha! bind him on his back!
Look--as Prometheus in my picture here!
Quick--or he faints!--stand with the cordial near!
Now--bend him to the rack!
Press down the poisoned links into his flesh!
And tear agape that healing wound afresh!

"So--let him writhe! How long
Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now!
What a fine agony works upon his brow!
Ha! gray-haired, and so strong!
How fearfully he stifles that short moan!
Gods! if I could but paint a dying groan!

"'Pity' thee! So I do!
I pity the dumb victim at the altar--
But does the robed priest for his pity falter?
I'd rack thee though I knew
A thousand lives were perishing in thine--
What were ten thousand to a fame like mine?

"'Hereafter!' Ay--hereafter!
A whip to keep a coward to his track!
What gave Death ever from his kingdom back
To check the sceptic's laughter?
Come from the grave to-morrow with that story,
And I may take some softer path to glory.

"No, no, old man! we die
Even as the flowers, and we shall breathe away
Our life upon the chance wind, even as they!
Strain well thy fainting eye--
For when that bloodshot quivering is o'er,
The light of heaven will never reach thee more.

"Yet there's a deathless name!
A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn,
And like a steadfast planet mount and burn;
And though its crown of flame
Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone,
By all the fiery stars! I'd bind it on!--

"Ay--though it bid me rifle
My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst--
Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first--
Though it should bid me stifle
The yearning in my throat for my sweet child,
And taunt its mother till my brain went wild--

"All--I would do it all--
Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot,
Thrust foully into earth to be forgot!
Oh heaven!--but I appall
Your heart, old man! forgive--ha! on your lives
Let him not faint!--rack him till he revives!

"Vain--vain--give o'er! His eye
Glazes apace. He does not feel you now--
Stand back! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow!
Gods! if he do not die
But for one moment--one--till I eclipse
Conception with the scorn of those calm lips!

"Shivering! Hark! he mutters
Brokenly now--that was a difficult breath--
Another? Wilt thou never come, oh Death!
Look! how his temple flutters!
Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head!
He shudders--gasps--Jove help him!--so--he's dead."

How like a mounting devil in the heart
Rules the unreigned ambition! Let it once
But play the monarch, and its haughty brow
Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought
And unthrones peace forever. Putting on
The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns
The heart to ashes, and with not a spring
Left in the bosom for the spirit's lip,
We look upon our splendor and forget
The thirst of which we perish! Yet hath life
Many a falser idol. There are hopes
Promising well; and love-touched dreams for some;
And passions, many a wild one; and fair schemes
For gold and pleasure--yet will only this
Balk not the soul--Ambition, only, gives,
Even of bitterness, a beaker full!
Friendship is but a slow-awaking dream,
Troubled at best; Love is a lamp unseen,
Burning to waste, or, if its light is found,
Nursed for an idle hour, then idly broken;
Gain is a grovelling care, and Folly tires,
And Quiet is a hunger never fed;
And from Love's very bosom, and from Gain,
Or Folly, or a Friend, or from Repose--
From all but keen Ambition--will the soul
Snatch the first moment of forgetfulness
To wander like a restless child away.
Oh, if there were not better hopes than these--
Were there no palm beyond a feverish fame--
If the proud wealth flung back upon the heart
Must canker in its coffers--if the links
Falsehood hath broken will unite no more--
If the deep yearning love, that hath not found
Its like in the cold world, must waste in tears--
If truth and fervor and devotedness,
Finding no worthy altar, must return
And die of their own fulness--if beyond
The grave there is no heaven in whose wide air
The spirit may find room, and in the love
Of whose bright habitants the lavish heart
May spend itself--what thrice-mocked fools are we!

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.

LUCIUS JUNIUS BRUTUS OVER THE BODY OF LUCRETIA.

FROM "BRUTUS."

Would you know why I summoned you together?
Ask ye what brings me here? Behold this dagger,
Clotted with gore! Behold that frozen corse!
See where the lost Lucretia sleeps in death!
She was the mark and model of the time,
The mould in which each female face was formed,
The very shrine and sacristy of virtue!
Fairer than ever was a form created
By youthful fancy when the blood strays wild,
And never-resting thought is all on fire!
The worthiest of the worthy! Not the nymph
Who met old Numa in his hallowed walks,
And whispered in his ear her strains divine,
Can I conceive beyond her;--the young choir
Of vestal virgins bent to her. 'T is wonderful
Amid the darnel, hemlock, and base weeds,
Which now spring rife from the luxurious compost
Spread o'er the realm, how this sweet lily rose,--
How from the shade of those ill-neighboring plants
Her father sheltered her, that not a leaf
Was blighted, but, arrayed in purest grace,
She bloomed unsullied beauty. Such perfections
Might have called back the torpid breast of age
To long-forgotten rapture; such a mind
Might have abashed the boldest libertine
And turned desire to reverential love
And holiest affection! O my countrymen!
You all can witness when that she went forth
It was a holiday in Rome; old age
Forgot its crutch, labor its task,--all ran,
And mothers, turning to their daughters, cried,
"There, there's Lucretia!" Now look ye where she lies!
That beauteous flower, that innocent sweet rose,
Torn up by ruthless violence,--gone! gone! gone!
Say, would you seek instruction? would ye ask
What ye should do? Ask ye yon conscious walls,
Which saw his poisoned brother,--
Ask yon deserted street, where Tullia drove
O'er her dead father's corse, 't will cry, Revenge!
Ask yonder senate-house, whose stones are purple
With human blood, and it will cry, Revenge!
Go to the tomb where lies his murdered wife,
And the poor queen, who loved him as her son,
Their unappeased ghosts will shriek, Revenge!
The temples of the gods, the all-viewing heavens,
The gods themselves, shall justify the cry,
And swell the general sound, Revenge! Revenge!
And we will be revenged, my countrymen!
Brutus shall lead you on; Brutus, a name
Which will, when you're revenged, be dearer to him
Than all the noblest titles earth can boast.
Brutus your king!--No, fellow-citizens!
If mad ambition in this guilty frame
Had strung one kingly fibre, yea, but one,--
By all the gods, this dagger which I hold
Should rip it out, though it intwined my heart.
Now take the body up. Bear it before us
To Tarquin's palace; there we'll light our torches,
And in the blazing conflagration rear
A pile, for these chaste relics, that shall send
Her soul amongst the stars. On! Brutus leads you!

JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.

THE ROMAN FATHER.

FROM "VIRGINIA"

Straightway Virginius led the maid
A little space aside,
To where the reeking shambles stood,
Piled up with horn and hide;
Close to yon low dark archway,
Where, in a crimson flood,
Leaps down to the great sewer
The gurgling stream of blood.

Hard by, a flesher on a block
Had laid his whittle down:
Virginius caught the whittle up,
And hid it in his gown.
And then his eyes grew very dim,
And his throat began to swell,
And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake,
"Farewell, sweet child! Farewell!

"O, how I loved my darling!
Though stern I sometimes be,
To thee, thou know'st, I was not so,--
Who could be so to thee?
And how my darling loved me!
How glad she was to hear
My footstep on the threshold
When I came back last year!

"And how she danced with pleasure
To see my civic crown,
And took my sword, and hung it up,
And brought me forth my gown!
Now, all those things are over,--
Yes, all thy pretty ways,
Thy needlework, thy prattle,
Thy snatches of old lays;

"And none will grieve when I go forth,
Or smile when I return,
Or watch beside the old man's bed,
Or weep upon his urn.
The house that was the happiest
Within the Roman walls,
The house that envied not the wealth
Of Capua's marble halls,

"Now, for the brightness of thy smile,
Must have eternal gloom,
And for the music of thy voice,
The silence of the tomb.
The time is come! See how he points
His eager hand this way!
See how his eyes gloat on thy grief,
Like a kite's upon the prey!

"With all his wit, he little deems
That, spurned, betrayed, bereft,
Thy father hath, in his despair,
One fearful refuge left.
He little deems that in this hand
I clutch what still can save
Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows,
The portion of the slave;

"Yea, and from nameless evil,
That passes taunt and blow,--
Foul outrage which thou knowest not,
Which thou shalt never know.
Then clasp me round the neck once more,
And give me one more kiss;
And now, mine own dear little girl,
There is no way but this."

With that he lifted high the steel,
And smote her in the side,
And in her blood she sank to earth,
And with one sob she died.
Then, for a little moment,
All people held their breath;
And through the crowded forum
Was stillness as of death;

And in another moment
Brake forth, from one and all,
A cry as if the Volscians
Were coming o'er the wall.
Some with averted faces
Shrieking fled home amain;
Some ran to call a leech; and some
Ran to lift up the slain.

Some felt her lips and little wrist,
If life might there be found;
And some tore up their garments fast,
And strove to stanch the wound.
In vain they ran, and felt, and stanched;
For never truer blow
That good right arm had dealt in fight
Against a Volscian foe.

When Appius Claudius saw that deed,
He shuddered and sank down,
And hid his face some little space
With the corner of his gown;
Till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes,
Virginius tottered nigh,
And stood before the judgment-seat,
And held the knife on high.

"O dwellers in the nether gloom,
Avengers of the slain,
By this dear blood I cry to you
Do right between us twain;
And even as Appius Claudius
Hath dealt by me and mine,
Deal you by Appius Claudius,
And all the Claudian line!"

So spake the slayer of his child,
And turned and went his way;
But first he cast one haggard glance
To where the body lay,
And writhed, and groaned a fearful groan,
And then, with-steadfast feet,
Strode right across the market-place
Unto the Sacred Street.

Then up sprang Appius Claudius:
"Stop him; alive or dead!
Ten thousand pounds of copper
To the man who brings his head."
He looked upon his clients;
But none would work his will.
He looked upon his lictors;
But they trembled, and stood still.

And as Virginius through the press
His way in silence cleft,
Ever the mighty multitude
Fell back to right and left.
And he hath passed in safety
Onto his woful home,
And there ta'en horse to tell the camp
What deeds are done in Rome.

THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY.

MARK ANTONY, OVER THE BODY OF CÆSAR.

FROM "JULIUS CÆSAR," ACT III. SC. 2.

ANTONY.--O mighty Cæsar! dost thou lie so low?
Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils,
Shrunk to this little measure?--Fare thee well.--

(_To the people._)

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interrèd with their bones;
So let it be with Cæsar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Cæsar was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault;
And grievously hath Cæsar answered it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest,
(For Brutus is an honorable man;
So are they all, all honorable men,)
Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honorable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome,
Whose ransom did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept:
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honorable man.
You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honorable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once,--not without cause!
What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him?
O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason!--Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.

* * * * *

But yesterday, the word of Cæsar might
Have stood against the world! now lies he there
And none so poor to do him reverence.
O masters! if I were disposed to stir
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,
I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,
Who, you all know, are honorable men:
I will not do them wrong; I rather choose
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you,
Than I will wrong such honorable men.
But here 's a parchment, with the seal of Cæsar,--
I found it in his closet,--'tis his will.
Let but the commons hear this testament,
(Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read,)
And they would go and kiss dead Cæsar's wounds,
And dip their napkins in his sacred blood:
Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,
And, dying, mention it within their wills,
Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy,
Unto their issue.

4 CITIZEN.--We'll hear the will: read it, Mark Antony.

CITIZENS.--The will, the will! we will hear Cæsar's will.

ANTONY.--Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it;
It is not meet you know how Cæsar loved you.
You are not wood, you are not stones, but men;
And, being men, hearing the will of Cæsar,
It will inflame you, it will make you mad:
'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs,
For if you should, O, what would come of it!

4 CITIZEN.--Read the will; we'll hear it, Antony;
You shall read us the will,--Cæsar's will.

ANTONY.--Will you be patient? Will you stay awhile?
I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it.
I fear I wrong the honorable men
Whose daggers have stabbed Cæsar; I do fear it.

4 CITIZEN.--They were traitors: honorable men!

CITIZENS.--The will! the testament!

2 CITIZEN.--They were villains, murderers: the will!
read the will!

ANTONY.--You will compel me, then, to read the will!
Then make a ring about the corse of Cæsar,
And let me show you him that made the will.
Shall I descend? and will you give me leave?

CITIZENS.--Come down.

ANTONY.--Nay, press not so upon me; stand far off.

CITIZENS.--Stand back; room; bear back.

ANTONY.--If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
You all do know this mantle: I remember
The first time ever Cæsar put it on;
'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent;
That day he overcame the Nervii:--
Look, in this place ran Cassius' dagger through:
See what a rent the envious Casca made:
Through this the well-belovèd Brutus stabbed;
And, as he plucked his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it,
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved
If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no;
For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel:
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Cæsar loved him!
This was the most unkindest cut of all;
For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,
Quite vanquished him: then burst his mighty heart;
And, in his mantle muffling up his face,
Even at the base of Pompey's statua,
Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell.
O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourished over us.
O, now you weep; and I perceive you feel
The dint of pity: these are gracious drops.
Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold
Our Cæsar's vesture wounded? Look you here,
Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors.

* * * * *

Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up
To such a sudden flood of mutiny.
They that have done this deed are honorable;--
What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,
That made them do it;--they are wise and honorable,
And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts;
I am no orator, as Brutus is;
But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man,
That love my friend; and that they know full well
That gave me public leave to speak of him:
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,
Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,
To stir men's blood: I only speak right on;
I tell you that which you yourselves do know;
Show you sweet Cæsar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths,
And bid them speak for me: but were I Brutus,
And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue
In every wound of Cæsar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.

ALL.--We'll mutiny.

1 CITIZEN.--We'll burn the house of Brutus.

3 CITIZEN.--Away, then! come, seek the conspirators.

ANTONY.--Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me speak.

ALL.--Peace, ho! Hear Antony, most noble Antony.

ANTONY.--Why, friends, you go to do you know not what.
Wherein hath Cæsar thus deserved your loves?
Alas, you know not!--I must tell you, then.
You have forgot the will I told you of.

ALL.--Most true;--the will!--let's stay and hear the will.

ANTONY.--Here is the will, and under Cæsar's seal:--
To every Roman citizen he gives,
To every several man, seventy-five drachmas.

2 CITIZEN.--Most noble Cæsar!--we'll revenge his death.

3 CITIZEN.--O royal Cæsar!

ANTONY.--Hear me with patience.

CITIZENS.--Peace, ho!

ANTONY.--Moreover, he hath left you all his walks,
His private arbors, and new-planted orchards
On this side Tiber; he hath left them you,
And to your heirs forever,--common pleasures,
To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves.
Here was a Cæsar! when comes such another?

1 CITIZEN.--Never, never!--Come away, away!
We 'll burn his body in the holy place,
And with the brands fire the traitors' houses.
Take up the body....
[_Exeunt Citizens, with the body._]

ANTONY.--Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot,
Take thou what course thou wilt.

SHAKESPEARE.

THE SACK OF THE CITY.

Thy will, O King, is done! Lighting but to consume,
The roar of the fierce flames drowned even the shouts and shrieks;
Reddening each roof, like some day-dawn of bloody doom,
Seemed they in joyous flight to dance above their wrecks.

Slaughter his thousand giant arms hath tossed on high,
Fell fathers, husbands, wives, beneath his streaming steel;
Prostrate the palaces huge tombs of fire lie,
While gathering overhead the vultures scream and wheel.

Died the pale mothers;--and the virgins, from their arms,
O Caliph, fiercely torn, bewailed their young years' blight;
With stabs and kisses fouled, all their yet quivering charms
At our fleet coursers' heels were dragged in mocking flight.

Lo, where the city lies mantled in pall of death!
Lo, where thy mighty arm hath passed, all things must bend!
As the priests prayed, the sword stopped their accursèd breath,--
Vainly their sacred book for shield did they extend.

Some infants yet survived, and the unsated steel
Still drinks the life-blood of each whelp of Christian hound.
To kiss thy sandal's foot, O King, thy people kneel,
With golden circlet to thy glorious ankle bound.

From the French of VICTOR-MARIE HUGO.

THE SLAYING OF SOHRAB.

FROM "SOHRAB AND RUSTUM."

He spake; and Rustum answered not, but hurled
His spear. Down from the shoulder, down it came--
As on some partridge in the corn, a hawk,
That long has towered in the airy clouds,
Drops like a plummet. Sohrab saw it come,
And sprang aside, quick as a flash. The spear
Hissed, and went quivering down into the sand,
Which it sent flying wide. Then Sohrab threw
In turn, and full struck Rustum's shield. Sharp rang
The iron plates, rang sharp, but turned the spear.
And Rustum seized his club, which none but he
Could wield--an unlapped trunk it was, and huge,
Still rough; like those which men, in treeless plains,
To build them boats, fish from the flooded rivers,
Hyphasis or Hydaspes, when, high up
By their dark springs, the wind in winter-time
Has made in Himalayan forests wrack,
And strewn the channels with torn boughs--so huge
The club which Rustum lifted now, and struck
One stroke; but again Sohrab sprang aside,
Lithe as the glancing snake, and the club came
Thundering to earth, and leapt from Rustum's hand.
And Rustum followed his own blow, and fell
To his knees, and with his fingers clutched the sand.
And now might Sohrab have unsheathed his sword,
And pierced the mighty Rustum while he lay
Dizzy, and on his knees, and choked with sand;
But he looked on, and smiled, nor bared his sword;
But courteously drew back, and spoke, and said:--
"Thou strik'st too hard; that club of thine will float
Upon the summer floods, and not my bones.
But rise, and be not wroth; not wroth am I.
No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my soul.
Thou sayest thou art not Rustum; be it so.
Who art thou then, that canst so touch my soul?
Boy as I am, I have seen battles too;
Have waded foremost in their bloody waves,
And heard their hollow roar of dying men;
But never was my heart thus touched before.
Are they from heaven, these softenings of the heart?
O thou old warrior, let us yield to Heaven!
Come, plant we here in earth our angry spears,
And make a truce, and sit upon this sand,
And pledge each other in red wine, like friends;
And thou shalt talk to me of Rustum's deeds.
There are enough foes in the Persian host
Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel no pang;
Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thou
May'st fight: fight them, when they confront thy spear.
But oh, let there be peace 'twixt thee and me!"
He ceased. But while he spake Rustum had risen,
And stood erect, trembling with rage. His club
He left to lie, but had regained his spear,
Whose fiery point now in his mailed right hand
Blazed bright and baleful--like that autumn star,
The baleful sign of fevers. Dust had soiled
His stately crest, and dimmed his glittering arms.
His breast heaved; his lips foamed; and twice his voice
Was choked with rage. At last these words broke way:--
"Girl! nimble with thy feet, not with thy hands!
Curled minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words!
Fight! Let me hear thy hateful voice no more!
Thou art not in Afrasiab's gardens now
With Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont to dance;
But on the Oxus sands, and in the dance
Of battle, and with me, who make no play
Of war. I fight it out, and hand to hand.
Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and wine!
Remember all thy valor; try thy feints
And cunning; all the pity I had is gone;
Because thou hast shamed me before both the hosts,
With thy light skipping tricks, and thy girl's wiles."
He spoke; and Sohrab kindled at his taunts,
And he too drew his sword. At once they rushed
Together; as two eagles on one prey
Come rushing down together from the clouds,
One from the east, one from the west. Their shields
Dashed with a clang together; and a din
Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters
Make often in the forest's heart at morn,
Of hewing axes, crashing trees; such blows
Rustum and Sohrab on each other hailed.
And you would say that sun and stars took part
In that unnatural conflict; for a cloud
Grew suddenly in heaven, and darkened the sun
Over the fighters' heads; and a wind rose
Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain,
And in a sandy whirlwind wrapped the pair.
In gloom they twain were wrapped, and they alone;
For both the on-looking hosts on either hand
Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure,
And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream.
But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyes
And laboring breath. First Rustum struck the shield
Which Sohrab held stiff out. The steel-spiked spear
Rent the tough plates, but failed to reach the skin:
And Rustum plucked it back with angry groan.
Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum's helm
Nor clove its steel quite through; but all the crest
He shore away; and that proud horse-hair plume,
Never till now defiled, sunk to the dust;
And Rustum bowed his head. But then the gloom
Grew blacker; thunder rumbled in the air,
And lightnings rent the cloud; and Ruksh, the horse,
Who stood at hand, uttered a dreadful cry.
No horse's cry was that, most like the roar
Of some pained desert lion, who all day
Has trailed the hunter's javelin in his side,
And comes at night to die upon the sand.
The two hosts heard the cry, and quaked for fear;
And Oxus curdled as it crossed his stream.
But Sohrab heard, and quailed not--but rushed on,
And struck again; and again Rustum bowed
His head. But this time all the blade, like glass,
Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm,
And in his hand the hilt remained alone.
Then Rustum raised his head; his dreadful eyes
Glared, and he shook on high his menacing spear,
And shouted "Rustum!" Sohrab heard that shout,
And shrank amazed; back he recoiled one step,
And scanned with blinking eyes the advancing form;
And then he stood bewildered; and he dropped
His covering shield, and the spear pierced his side.
He reeled, and staggering back, sunk to the ground.
And then the gloom dispersed, and the wind fell,
And the bright sun broke forth, and melted all
The cloud; and the two armies saw the pair--
Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet,
And Sohrab wounded, on the bloody sand.
Then with a bitter smile, Rustum began:--
"Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to kill
A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse,
And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab's tent;
Or else that the great Rustum would come down
Himself to fight, and that thy wiles would move
His heart to take a gift, and let thee go.
And then all the Tartar host would praise
Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame,
To glad thy father in his weak old age.
Fool! thou art slain, and by an unknown man!
Dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be,
Than to thy friends, and to thy father old."
And with a fearless mien Sohrab replied:--
"Unknown thou art; yet thy fierce vaunt is vain.
Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful man!
No! Rustum slays me, and this filial heart.
For were I matched with ten such men as thou,
And I were he who till to-day I was,
They should be lying here, I standing there.
But that belovèd name unnerved my arm--
That name, and something, I confess, in thee,
Which troubles all my heart, and made my shield
Fall; and thy spear transfixed an unarmed foe.
And now thou boastest, and insult'st my fate.
But hear thou this, fierce man--tremble to hear!
The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death!
My father, whom I seek through all the world,
He shall avenge my death, and punish thee!"

* * * * *

So Rustum knew not his own loss; but stood
Over his dying son, and knew him not.
But with a cold, incredulous voice, he said:--
"What prate is this of fathers and revenge?
The mighty Rustum never had a son."
And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied:--
"Ah yes, he had! and that lost son am I.
Surely the news will one day reach his ear--
Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries long,
Somewhere, I know not where, but far from here;
And pierce him like a stab, and make him leap
To arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee--
Fierce man, bethink thee--for an only son!
What will that grief, what will that vengeance be!
Oh, could I live till I that grief had seen!
Yet him I pity not so much, but her,
My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwells
With that old king, her father, who grows gray
With age, and rules over the valiant Koords.
Her most I pity, who no more will see
Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp,
With spoils and honor, when the war is done,
But a dark rumor will be bruited up,
From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear;
And then will that defenceless woman learn
That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more;
But that in battle with a nameless foe,
By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain."

* * * * *

And Rustum gazed on him with grief, and said:
"O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son
Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might well have loved!
Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men
Have told thee false--thou art not Rustum's son.
For Rustum had no son. One child he had--
But one--a girl; who with her mother now
Plies some light female task, nor dreams of us;
Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor war."
But Sohrab answered him in wrath; for now
The anguish of the deep-fixed spear grew fierce,
And he desired to draw forth the steel,
And let the blood flow free, and so to die.
But first he would convince his stubborn foe;
And, rising sternly on one arm, he said:
"Man, who art thou, who dost deny my words?
Truth sits upon the lips of dying men;
And falsehood, while I lived, was far from mine.
I tell thee, pricked upon this arm I bear
That seal which Rustum to my mother gave,
That she might prick it on the babe she bore."
He spoke: and all the blood left Rustum's cheeks;
And his knees tottered; and he smote his hand
Against his breast, his heavy mailèd hand,
That the hard iron corselet clanked aloud;
And to his heart he pressed the other hand,
And in a hollow voice he spake, and said:
"Sohrab, that were a proof which could not lie.
If thou show this, then art thou Rustum's son."
Then, with weak, hasty fingers, Sohrab loosed
His belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm,
And showed a sign in faint vermilion points
Pricked. As a cunning workman, in Pekin,
Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain vase,
An emperor's gift; at early morn he paints,
And all day long; and, when night comes, the lamp
Lights up his studious forehead and thin hands:
So delicately pricked the sign appeared
On Sohrab's arm--the sign of Rustum's seal.
It was that griffin, which of old reared Zal,
Rustum's great father, whom they left to die,
A helpless babe, among the mountain rocks,
Him that kind creature found and reared and loved.
Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign.
And Sohrab bared that figure on his arm,
And himself scanned it long with mournful eyes,
And then he touched it with his hand and said:
"How sayest thou? Is that sign the proper sign
Of Rustum's son, or of some other man's?"
He spoke: but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and stood
Speechless; and then he uttered one sharp cry--
"O, boy--thy father!"--and his voice choked there,
And then a dark cloud passed before his eyes,
And his head swam, and he sank down to earth.
But Sohrab crawled to where he lay, and cast
His arms about his neck, and kissed his lips.
And with fond, faltering fingers stroked his cheeks,
Trying to call him back to life. And life
Came back to Rustum, and he oped his eyes,
And they stood wide with horror; and he seized
In both his hands the dust which lay around,
And threw it on his head, and smirched his hair--
His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering arms;
And strong, convulsive groanings shook his breast,
And his sobs choked him; and he clutched his sword
To draw it, and for ever let life out.
But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his hands;
And with a soothing voice he spoke, and said:
"Father, forbear! for I but meet to-day
The doom that at my birth was written down
In heaven, and thou art heaven's unconscious hand.
Surely my heart cried out that it was thou,
When first I saw thee; and thy heart spoke too,
I know it. But fate trod those promptings down
Under its iron heel; fate, fate engaged
The strife, and hurled me on my father's spear.
But let us speak no more of this--I find
My father; let me feel that I have found.
Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take
My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks,
And wash them with thy tears, and say, 'My son!'
Quick! quick! for numbered are my sands of life,
And swift; for like the lightning to this field
I came, and like the wind I go away--
Sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind.
But it was writ in heaven that this should be."
So said he: and his voice released the heart
Of Rustum, and his tears broke forth; he cast
His arms round his son's neck, and wept aloud,
And kissed him. And awe fell on both the hosts
When they saw Rustum's grief; and Ruksh, the horse,
With his head bowing to the ground, and mane
Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woe,
First to the one, then to the other moved
His head, as if inquiring what their grief
Might mean; and from his dark, compassionate eyes,
The big, warm tears rolled down, and caked the sand.
But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and said:
"Ruksh, now thou grievest; but, O Ruksh, thy feet
Should then have rotted on thy nimble joints,
When first they bore thy master to this field."
But Sohrab looked upon the horse, and said:
"Is this then Ruksh? How often, in past days,
My mother told me of thee, thou brave steed--
My terrible father's terrible horse! and said
That I should one day find thy lord and thee.
Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane.
O Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I;
For thou hast gone where I shall never go,
And snuffed the breezes of my father's home,
And thou hast trod the sands of Seïstan,
And seen the river of Helmund, and the lake
Of Zirrah; and the aged Zal himself
Has often stroked thy neck, and given thee food--
Corn in a golden platter soaked with wine--
And said--'O Ruksh! bear Rustum well!' But I
Have never known my grandsire's furrowed face,
Nor seen his lofty house in Seïstan,
Nor slaked my thirst at the clear Helmund stream;
But lodged among my father's foes, and seen
Afrasiab's cities only, Samarcand,
Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste,
And the black Toorkmun tents; and only drunk
The desert rivers, Moorghab and Tejend,
Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep,
The northern Sir; and this great Oxus stream--
The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die."
And, with a heavy groan, Rustum replied:
"Oh that its waves were flowing over me!
Oh that I saw its grains of yellow silt
Roll tumbling in the current o'er my head!"
And, with a grave, mild voice, Sohrab replied:
"Desire not that, my father! Thou must live;
For some are born to do great deeds, and live;
As some are born to be obscured, and die.
Do thou the deeds I die too young to do,
And reap a second glory in thine age;
Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine.
But come! thou seest this great host of men
Which follow me; I pray thee, slay not these!
Let me entreat for them--what have they done?
They followed me, my hope, my fame, my star.
Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace.
But me thou must bear hence, not send with them,
But carry me with thee to Seïstan,
And place me on a bed, and mourn for me--
Thou, and the snow-haired Zal, and all thy friends.
And thou must lay me in that lovely earth,
And heap a stately mound above my bones,
And plant a far-seen pillar over all;
That so the passing horseman on the waste
May see my tomb a great way off, and say:
_Sohrab, the mighty Rustum's son, lies there,
Whom his great father did in ignorance kill_--
And I be not forgotten in my grave."
And, with a mournful voice, Rustum replied:
"Fear not! as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son,
So shall it be; for I will burn my tents,
And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me,
And carry thee away to Seïstan,
And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee,
With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends.
And I will lay thee in that lovely earth,
And heap a stately mound above thy bones,
And plant a far-seen pillar over all;
And men shall not forget thee in thy grave;
And I will spare thy host--yea, let them go--
Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace.
What should I do with slaying any more?
For would that all whom I have ever slain
Might be once more alive--my bitterest foes,
And they who were called champions in their time,
And through whose death I won that fame I have--
And I were nothing but a common man,
A poor, mean soldier, and without renown;
So thou mightest live too, my son, my son!
Or rather, would that I, even I myself,
Might now be lying on this bloody sand,
Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine.
Not thou of mine; and I might die, not thou;
And I, not thou, be borne to Seïstan;
And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine;
And say--_O son, I weep thee not too sore,
For willingly, I know, thou met'st thine end!_--
But now in blood and battles was my youth,
And full of blood and battles is my age;
And I shall never end this life of blood."
Then at the point of death, Sohrab replied:--
"A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful man!
But thou shalt yet have peace; only not now,
Not yet. But thou shalt have it on that day
When thou shalt sail in a high-masted ship,
Thou and the other peers of Kai-Khosroo,
Returning home over the salt, blue sea,
From laying thy dear master in his grave."
And Rustum gazed on Sohrab's face, and said:--
"Soon be that day, my son, and deep that sea!
Till then, if fate so wills, let me endure."
He spoke: and Sohrab smiled on him, and took
The spear, and drew it from his side, and eased
His wound's imperious anguish. But the blood
Came welling from the open gash, and life
Flowed with the stream; all down his cold white side
The crimson torrent ran, dim now, and soiled--
Like the soiled tissue of white violets
Left, freshly gathered, on their native bank
By romping children, whom their nurses call
From the hot fields at noon. His head drooped low;
His limbs grew slack; motionless, white, he lay--
White, with eyes closed; only when heavy gasps,
Deep, heavy gasps, quivering through all his frame,
Convulsed him back to life, he opened them,
And fixed them feebly on his father's face.
Till now all strength was ebbed, and from his limbs
Unwillingly the spirit fled away,
Regretting the warm mansion which it left,
And youth and bloom, and this delightful world.
So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead.
And the great Rustum drew his horseman's cloak
Down o'er his face, and sate by his dead son.
As those black granite pillars, once high-reared
By Jemshid in Persepolis, to bear
His house, now, mid their broken flights of steps,
Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain-side--
So in the sand lay Rustum by his son.
And night came down over the solemn waste,
And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair,
And darkened all; and a cold fog, with night,
Crept from the Oxus.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

KHAMSIN.

Oh, the wind from the desert blew in!--
Khamsin,
The wind from the desert blew in!
It blew from the heart of the fiery south,
From the fervid sand and the hills of drouth,
And it kissed the land with its scorching mouth;
The wind from the desert blew in!

It blasted the buds on the almond bough,
And shrivelled the fruit on the orange-tree;
The wizened dervish breathed no vow,
So weary and parched was he.
The lean muezzin could not cry;
The dogs ran mad, and bayed the sky;
The hot sun shone like a copper disk,
And prone in the shade of an obelisk
The water-carrier sank with a sigh,
For limp and dry was his water-skin;
And the wind from the desert blew in.

The camel crouched by the crumbling wall,
And oh the pitiful moan it made!
The minarets, taper and slim and tall,
Reeled and swam in the brazen light;
And prayers went up by day and night,
But thin and drawn were the lips that prayed.
The river writhed in its slimy bed,
Shrunk to a tortuous, turbid thread;
The burnt earth cracked like a cloven rind;
And still the wind, the ruthless wind,
Khamsin,
The wind from the desert blew in.

Into the cool of the mosque it crept,
Where the poor sought rest at the Prophet's shrine;
Its breath was fire to the jasmine vine;
It fevered the brow of the maid who slept,
And men grew haggard with revel of wine.
The tiny fledglings died in the nest;
The sick babe gasped at the mother's breast.
Then a rumor rose and swelled and spread
From a tremulous whisper, faint and vague,
Till it burst in a terrible cry of dread,
_The plague! the plague! the plague!_--
Oh the wind, Khamsin,
The scourge from the desert, blew in!

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

THE DIVER.

"Oh, where is the knight or the squire so bold,
As to dive to the howling charybdis below?--
I cast into the whirlpool a goblet of gold,
And o'er it already the dark waters flow:
Whoever to me may the goblet bring,
Shall have for his guerdon that gift of his king."

He spoke, and the cup from the terrible steep,
That rugged and hoary, hung over the verge
Of the endless and measureless world of the deep,
Swirled into the maelstrom that maddened the surge.
"And where is the diver so stout to go--
I ask ye again--to the deep below?"

And the knights and the squires that gathered around,
Stood silent--and fixed on the ocean their eyes;
They looked on the dismal and savage profound,
And the peril chilled back every thought of the prize.
And thrice spoke the monarch--"The cup to win,
Is there never a wight who will venture in?"

And all as before heard in silence the king--
Till a youth, with an aspect unfearing but gentle,
'Mid the tremulous squires, stept out from the ring,
Unbuckling his girdle, and doffing his mantle;

[Illustration: THE DIVER.

"Hark! a shriek from the crowd rang aloft from the shore,
And behold: he is whirled in the grasp of the main."
--SCHILLER.
_From a photogravure after drawing by A. Michaelis._]

And the murmuring crowd, as they parted asunder,
On the stately boy cast their looks of wonder.

As he strode to the marge of the summit, and gave
One glance on the gulf of that merciless main;
Lo! the wave that for ever devours the wave,
Casts roaringly up the charybdis again;
And, as with the swell of the far thunder-boom,
Rushes foamingly forth from the heart of the gloom.

And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars,
As when fire is with water commixed and contending;
And the spray of its wrath to the welkin up-soars,
And flood upon flood hurries on, never ending.
And it never will rest, nor from travail be free,
Like a sea that is laboring the birth of a sea.

And at last there lay open the desolate realm!
Through the breakers that whitened the waste of the swell,
Dark--dark yawned a cleft in the midst of the whelm,
The path to the heart of that fathomless hell.
Round and round whirled the waves--deep and deeper still driven,
Like a gorge thro' the mountainous main thunder-riven.

The youth gave his trust to his Maker! Before
That path through the riven abyss closed again--
Hark! a shriek from the crowd rang aloft from the shore,
And, behold! he is whirled in the grasp of the main!
And o'er him the breakers mysteriously rolled,
And the giant-mouth closed on the swimmer so bold.

O'er the surface grim silence lay dark and profound,
But the deep from below murmured hollow and fell;
And the crowd, as it shuddered, lamented aloud--
"Gallant youth--noble heart--fare-thee-well, fare-thee-well!"
And still ever deepening that wail as of woe,
More hollow the gulf sent its howl from below.

If thou should'st in those waters thy diadem fling,
And cry, "Who may find it shall win it, and wear;"
God's wot, though the prize were the crown of a king--
A crown at such hazard were valued too dear.
For never did lips of the living reveal,
What the deeps that howl yonder in terror conceal.

Oh many a ship, to that breast grappled fast,
Has gone down to the fearful and fathomless grave;
Again crashed together, the keel and the mast,
To be seen, tossed aloft in the glee of the wave.--
Like the growth of a storm ever louder and clearer,
Grows the roar of the gulf rising nearer and nearer.

And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars,
As when fire is with water commixed and contending;
And the spray of its wrath to the welkin up-soars,
And flood upon flood hurries on, never ending,
And, as with the swell of the far thunder-boom,
Rushes roaringly forth from the heart of the gloom.

And lo! from the heart of that far-floating gloom,
What gleams on the darkness so swanlike and white?
Lo! an arm and a neck, glancing up from the tomb!--
They battle--the Man with the Element's might.
It is he--it is he!--In his left hand behold,
As a sign--as a joy! shines the goblet of gold!

And he breathèd deep, and he breathèd long,
And he greeted the heavenly delight of the day.
They gaze on each other--they shout as they throng--
"He lives--lo, the ocean has rendered its prey!
And out of the grave where the Hell began,
His valor has rescued the living man!"

And he comes with the crowd in their clamor and glee,
And the goblet his daring has won from the water,
He lifts to the king as he sinks on his knee;
And the king from her maidens has beckoned his daughter,
And he bade her the wine to his cup-bearer bring,
And thus spake the Diver--"Long life to the king!

"Happy they whom the rose-hues of daylight rejoice,
The air and the sky that to mortals are given!
May the horror below never more find a voice--
Nor Man stretch too far the wide mercy of Heaven!
Never more--never more may he lift from the mirror,
The Veil which is woven with Night and with Terror!

"Quick-brightening like lightning--it tore me along,
Down, down, till the gush of a torrent at play
In the rocks of its wilderness caught me--and strong
As the wings of an eagle, it whirled me away.
Vain, vain were my struggles--the circle had won me,
Round and round in its dance the wild element spun me.

"And I called on my God, and my God heard my prayer,
In the strength of my need, in the gasp of my breath--
And showed me a crag that rose up from the lair,
And I clung to it, trembling--and baffled the death.
And, safe in the perils around me, behold
On the spikes of the coral the goblet of gold!

"Below, at the foot of that precipice drear,
Spread the gloomy, and purple, and pathless obscure!
A silence of horror that slept on the ear,
That the eye more appalled might the horror endure!
Salamander--snake--dragon--vast reptiles that dwell
In the deep--coiled about the grim jaws of their hell!

"Dark-crawled--glided dark the unspeakable swarms,
Like masses unshapen, made life hideously;
Here clung and here bristled the fashionless forms,
Here the Hammer-fish darkened the dark of the sea,
And with teeth grinning white, and a menacing motion,
Went the terrible Shark--the hyena of Ocean.

"There I hung, and the awe gathered icily o'er me,
So far from the earth where man's help there was none!
The one Human Thing, with the Goblins before me--
Alone--in a loneness so ghastly--ALONE!
Fathom-deep from man's eye in the speechless profound,
With the death of the main and the monsters around.

"Methought, as I gazed through the darkness, that now
A hundred-limbed creature caught sight of its prey,
And darted.--O God! from the far-flaming bough
Of the coral, I swept on the horrible way;
And it seized me, the wave with its wrath and its roar,
It seized me to save--King, the danger is o'er!"

On the youth gazed the monarch, and marvelled--quoth he,
"Bold Diver, the goblet I promised is thine,
And this ring will I give, a fresh guerdon to thee,
Never jewels more precious shone up from the mine;
If thou'll bring me fresh tidings, and venture again,
To say what lies hid in the _innermost_ main!"

Then outspake the daughter in tender emotion,
"Ah! father, my father, what more can there rest?
Enough of this sport with the pitiless ocean--
He has served thee as none would, thyself hast confest.
If nothing can slake thy wild thirst of desire,
Be your knights not, at least, put to shame by the squire!"

The king seized the goblet--he swung it on high,
And whirling, it fell in the roar of the tide;
"But bring back that goblet again to my eye,
And I'll hold thee the dearest that rides by my side,
And thine arms shall embrace as thy bride, I decree,
The maiden whose pity now pleadeth for thee."

In his heart, as he listened, there leapt the wild joy--
And the hope and the love through his eyes spoke in fire,
On that bloom, on that blush, gazed, delighted, the boy;
The maiden she faints at the feet of her sire!
Here the guerdon divine; there the danger beneath;
He resolves!--To the strife with the life and the death!

They hear the loud surges sweep back in their swell;
Their coming the thunder-sound heralds along!
Fond eyes yet are tracking the spot where he fell--
They come, the wild waters, in tumult and throng,
Rearing up to the cliff--roaring back as before;
But no wave ever brought the lost youth to the shore.

From the German of JOHANN C. F. SCHILLER.

GOD'S JUDGMENT ON A WICKED BISHOP.

[Hatto, Archbishop of Mentz, in the year 914, barbarously
murdered a number of poor people to prevent their consuming
a portion of the food during that year of famine. He was
afterwards devoured by rats in his tower on an island in the
Rhine.--OLD LEGEND.]

The summer and autumn had been so wet,
That in winter the corn was growing yet:
'Twas a piteous sight to see all around
The grain lie rotting on the ground.

Every day the starving poor
Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door;
For he had a plentiful last-year's store,
And all the neighborhood could tell
His granaries were furnished well.

At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day
To quiet the poor without delay;
He bade them to his great barn repair,
And they should have food for the winter there.

Rejoiced the tidings good to hear,
The poor folks flocked from far and near;
The great barn was full as it could hold
Of women and children, and young and old.

Then, when he saw it could hold no more,
Bishop Hatto he made fast the door;
And whilst for mercy on Christ they call,
He set fire to the barn, and burnt them all.

"I' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he;
"And the country is greatly obliged to me
For ridding it, in these times forlorn,
Of rats that only consume the corn."

So then to his palace returned he,
And he sate down to supper merrily,
And he slept that night like an innocent man;
But Bishop Hatto never slept again.

In the morning, as he entered the hall,
Where his picture hung against the wall,
A sweat like death all over him came,
For the rats had eaten it out of the frame.

As he looked, there came a man from his farm--
He had a countenance white with alarm:
"My lord, I opened your granaries this morn,
And the rats had eaten all your corn."

Another came running presently,
And he was pale as pale could be.
"Fly! my lord bishop, fly!" quoth he,
"Ten thousand rats are coming this way,--
The Lord forgive you for yesterday!"

"I'll go to my tower in the Rhine," replied he;
"'T is the safest place in Germany,--
The walls are high, and the shores are steep,
And the tide is strong, and the water deep."

Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away;
And he crossed the Rhine without delay,
And reached his tower, and barred with care
All the windows, doors, and loop-holes there.

He laid him down and closed his eyes,
But soon a scream made him arise;
He started, and saw two eyes of flame
On his pillow, from whence the screaming came.

He listened and looked,--it was only the cat;
But the bishop he grew more fearful for that,
For she sate screaming, mad with fear,
At the army of rats that were drawing near.

For they have swum over the river so deep,
And they have climbed the shores so steep,
And now by thousands up they crawl
To the holes and the windows in the wall.

Down on his knees the bishop fell,
And faster and faster his beads did he tell,
As louder and louder, drawing near,
The saw of their teeth without he could hear.

And in at the windows, and in at the door,
And through the walls, by thousands they pour;
And down from the ceiling and up through the floor,
From the right and the left, from behind and before,
From within and without, from above and below,--
And all at once to the bishop they go.

They have whetted their teeth against the stones,
And now they pick the bishop's bones;
They gnawed the flesh from every limb,
For they were sent to do judgment on him!

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

COUNTESS LAURA.

It was a dreary day in Padua.
The Countess Laura, for a single year
Fernando's wife, upon her bridal bed,
Like an uprooted lily on the snow,
The withered outcast of a festival,
Lay dead. She died of some uncertain ill,
That struck her almost on her wedding day,
And clung to her, and dragged her slowly down,
Thinning her cheeks and pinching her full lips,
Till in her chance, it seemed that with a year
Full half a century was overpast.
In vain had Paracelsus taxed his art,
And feigned a knowledge of her malady;
In vain had all the doctors, far and near,
Gathered around the mystery of her bed,
Draining her veins, her husband's treasury,
And physic's jargon, in a fruitless quest
For causes equal to the dread result.
The Countess only smiled when they were gone,
Hugged her fair body with her little hands,
And turned upon her pillows wearily,
As though she fain would sleep no common sleep,
But the long, breathless slumber of the grave.
She hinted nothing. Feeble as she was,
The rack could not have wrung her secret out.
The Bishop, when he shrived her, coming forth,
Cried, in a voice of heavenly ecstasy,
"O blessed soul! with nothing to confess
Save virtues and good deeds, which she mistakes--
So humble is she--for our human sins!"
Praying for death, she tossed upon her bed
Day after day; as might a shipwrecked bark
That rocks upon one billow, and can make
No onward motion towards her port of hope.
At length, one morn, when those around her said,
"Surely the Countess mends, so fresh a light
Beams from her eyes and beautifies her face,"--
One morn in spring, when every flower of earth
Was opening to the sun, and breathing up
its votive incense, her impatient soul
Opened itself, and so exhaled to heaven.
When the Count heard it, he reeled back a pace;
Then turned with anger on the messenger;
Then craved his pardon, and wept out his heart
Before the menial; tears, ah me! such tears
As love sheds only, and love only once.
Then he bethought him, "Shall this wonder die,
And leave behind no shadow? not a trace
Of all the glory that environed her,
That mellow nimbus circling round my star?"
So, with his sorrow glooming in his face,
He paced along his gallery of art,
And strode among the painters, where they stood,
With Carlo, the Venetian, at their head,
Studying the Masters by the dawning light
Of his transcendent genius. Through the groups
Of gayly vestured artists moved the Count,
As some lone cloud of thick and leaden hue,
Packed with the secret of a coming storm,
Moves through the gold and crimson evening mists,
Deadening their splendor. In a moment still
Was Carlo's voice, and still the prattling crowd;
And a great shadow overwhelmed them all,
As their white faces and their anxious eyes
Pursued Fernando in his moody walk.
He paused, as one who balances a doubt,
Weighing two courses, then burst out with this:
"Ye all have seen the tidings in my face;
Or has the dial ceased to register
The workings of my heart? Then hear the bell,
That almost cracks its frame in utterance;
The Countess,--she is dead!" "Dead!" Carlo groaned.
And if a bolt from middle heaven had struck
His splendid features full upon the brow,
He could not have appeared more scathed and blanched.
"Dead!--dead!" He staggered to his easel-frame,
And clung around it, buffeting the air
With one wild arm, as though a drowning man
Hung to a spar and fought against the waves.
The Count resumed: "I came not here to grieve,
Nor see my sorrow in another's eyes.
Who'll paint the Countess, as she lies to-night
In state within the chapel? Shall it be
That earth must lose her wholly? that no hint
Of her gold tresses, beaming eyes, and lips
That talked in silence, and the eager soul
That ever seemed outbreaking through her clay,
And scattering glory round it,--shall all these
Be dull corruption's heritage, and we,
Poor beggars, have no legacy to show
That love she bore us? That were shame to love,
And shame to you, my masters." Carlo stalked
Forth from his easel stiffly as a thing
Moved by mechanic impulse. His thin lips,
And sharpened nostrils, and wan, sunken cheeks,
And the cold glimmer in his dusky eyes,
Made him a ghastly sight. The throng drew back
As though they let a spectre through. Then he,
Fronting the Count, and speaking in a voice
Sounding remote and hollow, made reply:
"Count, I shall paint the Countess. 'T is my fate,--
Not pleasure,--no, nor duty." But the Count,
Astray in woe, but understood assent,
Not the strange words that bore it; and he flung
His arm round Carlo, drew him to his breast,
And kissed his forehead. At which Carlo shrank;
Perhaps 't was at the honor. Then the Count,
A little reddening at his public state,--
Unseemly to his near and recent loss,--
Withdrew in haste between the downcast eyes
That did him reverence as he rustled by.
Night fell on Padua. In the chapel lay
The Countess Laura at the altar's foot.
Her coronet glittered on her pallid brows;
A crimson pall, weighed down with golden work,
Sown thick with pearls, and heaped with early flowers,
Draped her still body almost to the chin;
And over all a thousand candles flamed
Against the winking jewels, or streamed down
The marble aisle, and flashed along the guard
Of men-at-arms that slowly wove their turns,
Backward and forward, through the distant gloom.
When Carlo entered, his unsteady feet
Scarce bore him to the altar, and his head
Drooped down so low that all his shining curls
Poured on his breast, and veiled his countenance.
Upon his easel a half-finished work,
The secret labor of his studio,
Said from the canvas, so that none might err,
"I am the Countess Laura." Carlo kneeled,
And gazed upon the picture; as if thus,
Through those clear eyes, he saw the way to heaven.
Then he arose; and as a swimmer comes
Forth from the waves, he shook his locks aside,
Emerging from his dream, and standing firm
Upon a purpose with his sovereign will.
He took his palette, murmuring, "Not yet!"
Confidingly and softly to the corpse,
And as the veriest drudge, who plies his art
Against his fancy, he addressed himself
With stolid resolution to his task,
Turning his vision on his memory,
And shutting out the present, till the dead,
The gilded pall, the lights, the pacing guard,
And all the meaning of that solemn scene
Became as nothing, and creative Art
Resolved the whole to chaos, and reformed
The elements according to her law:
So Carlo wrought, as though his eye and hand
Were Heaven's unconscious instruments, and worked
The settled purpose of Omnipotence.
And it was wondrous how the red, the white,
The ochre, and the umber, and the blue,
From mottled blotches, hazy and opaque,
Grew into rounded forms and sensuous lines;
How just beneath the lucid skin the blood
Glimmered with warmth; the scarlet lips apart
Bloomed with the moisture of the dews of life;
How the light glittered through and underneath
The golden tresses, and the deep, soft eyes
Became intelligent with conscious thought,
And somewhat troubled underneath the arch
Of eyebrows but a little too intense
For perfect beauty; how the pose and poise
Of the lithe figure on its tiny foot
Suggested life just ceased from motion; so
That any one might cry, in marvelling joy,
"That creature lives,--has senses, mind, a soul
To win God's love or dare hell's subtleties!"
The artist paused. The ratifying "Good!"
Trembled upon his lips. He saw no touch
To give or soften. "It is done," he cried,--
"My task, my duty! Nothing now on earth
Can taunt me with a work left unfulfilled!"
The lofty flame, which bore him up so long,
Died in the ashes of humanity;
And the mere man rocked to and fro again
Upon the centre of his wavering heart.
He put aside his palette, as if thus
He stepped from sacred vestments, and assumed
A mortal function in the common world.
"Now for my rights!" he muttered, and approached
The noble body. "O lily of the world!
So withered, yet so lovely! what wast thou
To those who came thus near thee--for I stood
Without the pale of thy half-royal rank--
When thou wast budding, and the streams of life
Made eager struggles to maintain thy bloom,
And gladdened heaven dropped down in gracious dews
On its transplanted darling? Hear me now!
I say this but in justice, not in pride,
Not to insult thy high nobility,
But that the poise of things in God's own sight
May be adjusted; and hereafter I
May urge a claim that all the powers of heaven
Shall sanction, and with clarions blow abroad.--
Laura you loved me! Look not so severe,
With your cold brows, and deadly, close-drawn lips!
You proved it, Countess, when you died for it,--
Let it consume you in the wearing strife
It fought with duty in your ravaged heart.
I knew it ever since that summer day
I painted Lilla, the pale beggar's child,
At rest beside the fountain; when I felt--
O Heaven!--the warmth and moisture of your breath
Blow through my hair, as with your eager soul--
Forgetting soul and body go as one--
You leaned across my easel till our cheeks--
Ah me! 't was not your purpose--touched, and clung!
Well, grant 't was genius; and is genius naught?
I ween it wears as proud a diadem--
Here, in this very world--as that you wear.
A king has held my palette, a grand-duke
Has picked my brush up, and a pope has begged
The favor of my presence in his Rome.
I did not go; I put my fortune by.
I need not ask you why: you knew too well.
It was but natural, it was no way strange,
That I should love you. Everything that saw,
Or had its other senses, loved you, sweet,
And I among them. Martyr, holy saint,--
I see the halo curving round your head,--
I loved you once; but now I worship you,
For the great deed that held my love aloof,
And killed you in the action! I absolve
Your soul from any taint. For from the day
Of that encounter by the fountain-side
Until this moment, never turned on me
Those tender eyes, unless they did a wrong
To nature by the cold, defiant glare
With which they chilled me. Never heard I word
Of softness spoken by those gentle lips;
Never received a bounty from that hand
Which gave to all the world. I know the cause.
You did your duty,--not for honor's sake,
Nor to save sin, or suffering, or remorse,
Or all the ghosts that haunt a woman's shame,
But for the sake of that pure, loyal love
Your husband bore you. Queen, by grace of God,
I bow before the lustre of your throne!
I kiss the edges of your garment-hem,
And hold myself ennobled! Answer me,--
If I had wronged you, you would answer me
Out of the dusty porches of the tomb:--
Is this a dream, a falsehood? or have I
Spoken the very truth?" "The very truth!"
A voice replied; and at his side he saw
A form, half shadow and half substance, stand,
Or, rather, rest; for on the solid earth
It had no footing, more than some dense mist
That waves o'er the surface of the ground
It scarcely touches. With a reverent look
The shadow's waste and wretched face was bent
Above the picture; as though greater awe
Subdued its awful being, and appalled,
With memories of terrible delight
And fearful wonder, its devouring gaze.
"You make what God makes,--beauty," said the shape.
"And might not this, this second Eve, console
The emptiest heart? Will not this thing outlast
The fairest creature fashioned in the flesh?
Before that figure, Time, and Death himself,
Stand baffled and disarmed. What would you ask
More than God's power, from nothing to create?"
The artist gazed upon the boding form,
And answered: "Goblin, if you had a heart,
That were an idle question. What to me
Is my creative power, bereft of love?
Or what to God would be that self-same power,
If so bereaved?" "And yet the love, thus mourned,
You calmly forfeited. For had you said
To living Laura--in her burning ears--
One half that you professed to Laura dead,
She would have been your own. These contraries
Sort not with my intelligence. But speak,
Were Laura living, would the same stale play
Of raging passion tearing out its heart
Upon the rock of duty be performed?"
"The same, O phantom, while the heart I bear
Trembled, but turned not its magnetic faith
From God's fixed centre." "If I wake for you
This Laura,--give her all the bloom and glow
Of that midsummer day you hold so dear,--
The smile, the motion, the impulsive soul,
The love of genius,--yea, the very love,
The mortal, hungry, passionate, hot love,
She bore you, flesh to flesh,--would you receive
That gift, in all its glory, at my hands?"
A smile of malice curled the tempter's lips,
And glittered in the caverns of his eyes,
Mocking the answer. Carlo paled and shook;
A woful spasm went shuddering through his frame,
Curdling his blood, and twisting his fair face
With nameless torture. But he cried aloud,
Out of the clouds of anguish, from the smoke
Of very martyrdom, "O God, she is thine!
Do with her at thy pleasure!" Something grand,
And radiant as a sunbeam, touched the head.
He bent in awful sorrow. "Mortal, see--"
"Dare not! As Christ was sinless, I abjure
These vile abominations! Shall she bear
Life's burden twice, and life's temptations twice,
While God is justice?" "Who has made you judge
Of what you call God's good, and what you think
God's evil? One to him, the source of both,
The God of good and of permitted ill.
Have you no dream of days that might have been,
Had you and Laura filled another fate?--
Some cottage on the sloping Apennines,
Roses and lilies, and the rest all love?
I tell you that this tranquil dream may be
Filled to repletion. Speak, and in the shade
Of my dark pinions I shall bear you hence,
And land you where the mountain-goat himself
Struggles for footing." He outspread his wings,
And all the chapel darkened, as though hell
Had swallowed up the tapers; and the air
Grew thick, and, like a current sensible,
Flowed round the person, with a wash and dash,
As of the waters of a nether sea.
Slowly and calmly through the dense obscure,
Dove-like and gentle, rose the artist's voice:
"I dare not bring her spirit to that shame!
Know my full meaning,--I who neither fear
Your mystic person nor your dreadful power.
Nor shall I now invoke God's potent name
For my deliverance from your toils. I stand
Upon the founded structure of his law,
Established from the first, and thence defy
Your arts, reposing all my trust in that!"
The darkness eddied off; and Carlo saw
The figure gathering, as from outer space,
Brightness on brightness; and his former shape
Fell from him, like the ashes that fall off,
And show a core of mellow fire within.
Adown his wings there poured a lambent flood,
That seemed as molten gold, which plashing fell
Upon the floor, enringing him with flame;
And o'er the tresses of his beaming head
Arose a stream of many-colored light,
Like that which crowns the morning. Carlo stood
Steadfast, for all the splendor, reaching up
The outstretched palms of his untainted soul
Towards heaven for strength. A moment thus; then asked,
With reverential wonder quivering through
His sinking voice, "Who, spirit, and what, art thou?"
"I am that blessing which men fly from,--Death."
"Then take my hand, if so God orders it;
For Laura waits me." "But, bethink thee, man,
What the world loses in the loss of thee!
What wondrous art will suffer with eclipse!
What unwon glories are in store for thee!
What fame, outreaching time and temporal shocks,
Would shine upon the letters of thy name
Graven in marble, or the brazen height
Of columns wise with memories of thee!"
"Take me! If I outlived the Patriarchs,
I could but paint those features o'er and o'er:
Lo! that is done." A smile of pity lit
The seraph's features, as he looked to heaven,
With deep inquiry in his tender eyes.
The mandate came. He touched with downy wing
The sufferer lightly on his aching heart;
And gently, as the skylark settles down
Upon the clustered treasures of her nest,
So Carlo softly slid along the prop
Of his tall easel, nestling at the foot
As though he slumbered; and the morning broke
In silver whiteness over Padua.

GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

OTHELLO'S REMORSE.

FROM "OTHELLO," ACT V. SC. 2.

Behold, I have a weapon;
A better never did itself sustain
Upon a soldier's thigh: I have seen the day,
That, with this little arm and this good sword,
I have made my way through more impediments
Than twenty times your stop:--but, O vain boast!
Who can control his fate? 't is not so now.--
Be not afraid, though you do see me weaponed;
Here is my journey's end, here is my butt,
And very sea-mark of my utmost sail.
Do you go back dismayed? 't is a lost fear;
Man but a rush against Othello's breast,
And he retires:--where should Othello go?--
Now, how dost thou look now? O ill-starred wench!
Pale as thy smock! when we shall meet at compt,
This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven,
And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl?
Even like thy chastity--O, cursèd slave!--
Whip me, ye devils,
From the possession of this heavenly sight!
Blow me about in winds! roast me in sulphur!
Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire!--
O Desdemona! Desdemona! dead? O! O!

SHAKESPEARE.

THE TRIAL OF BEATRICE.

FROM "THE CENCI," ACT V.

SCENE II.--_A Hall of Justice._ CAMILLO, JUDGES, etc.,
_are discovered seated_; MARZIO _is led in_.

FIRST JUDGE.--Accused, do you persist in your denial?
I ask you, are you innocent, or guilty?
I demand who were the participators
In your offence? Speak truth and the whole truth.

MARZIO.--My God! I did not kill him; I know nothing;
Olimpio sold the robe to me from which
You would infer my guilt.

SECOND JUDGE.--Away with him!

FIRST JUDGE.--Dare you, with lips yet white from the rack's kiss
Speak false? Is it so soft a questioner,
That you would bandy lovers' talk with it
Till it wind out your life and soul? Away!

MARZIO.--Spare me! O, spare! I will confess.

FIRST JUDGE.--Then speak.

MARZIO.--I strangled him in his sleep.

FIRST JUDGE.--Who urged you to it?

MARZIO.--His own son, Giacomo, and the young prelate
Orsino sent me to Petrella; there
The ladies Beatrice and Lucretia
Tempted me with a thousand crowns, and I
And my companion forthwith murdered him.
Now let me die.

FIRST JUDGE.--This sounds as bad as truth. Guards, there,
Lead forth the prisoner!

_Enter_ LUCRETIA, BEATRICE, _and_ GIACOMO, _guarded_.

Look upon this man;
When did you see him last?

BEATRICE.--We never saw him.

MARZIO.--You know me too well, Lady Beatrice.

BEATRICE.--I know thee! How? where? when?

MARZIO.--You know 't was I
Whom you did urge with menaces and bribes
To kill your father. When the thing was done
You clothed me in a robe of woven gold
And bade me thrive: how I have thriven, you see.
You, my Lord Giacomo, Lady Lucretia,
You know that what I speak is true.
(BEATRICE _advances towards him; he covers his face,
and shrinks back_.)
O, dart
The terrible resentment of those eyes
On the dead earth! Turn them away from me!
They wound: 't was torture forced the truth. My Lords,
Having said this let me be led to death.

BEATRICE.--Poor wretch, I pity thee: yet stay
awhile.

CAMILLO.--Guards, lead him not away.

BEATRICE.--Cardinal Camillo,
You have a good repute for gentleness
And wisdom: can it be that you sit here
To countenance a wicked farce like this?
When some obscure and trembling slave is dragged
From sufferings which might shake the sternest heart
And bade to answer, not as he believes,
But as those may suspect or do desire
Whose questions thence suggest their own reply:
And that in peril of such hideous torments
As merciful God spares even the damned. Speak now
The thing you surely know, which is that you,
If your fine frame were stretched upon that wheel,
And you were told: "Confess that you did poison
Your little nephew; that fair blue-eyed child
Who was the lodestar of your life:"--and tho'
All see, since his most swift and piteous death,
That day and night, and heaven and earth, and time
And all the things hoped for or done therein
Are changed to you, thro' your exceeding grief,
Yet you would say, "I confess anything:"
And beg from your tormentors, like that slave,
The refuge of dishonorable death.
I pray thee, Cardinal, that thou assert
My innocence.

CAMILLO (_much moved_).--What shall we think, my Lords?
Shame on these tears! I thought the heart was frozen
Which is their fountain. I would pledge my soul
That she is guiltless.

JUDGE.--Yet she must be tortured.

CAMILLO.--I would as soon have tortured mine own nephew
(If he now lived he would be just her age;
His hair, too, was her color, and his eyes
Like hers in shape, but blue and not so deep)
As that most perfect image of God's love
That ever came sorrowing upon the earth.
She is as pure as speechless infancy!

JUDGE.--Well, be her purity on your head, my Lord,
If you forbid the rack. His Holiness
Enjoined us to pursue this monstrous crime
By the severest forms of law; nay even
To stretch a point against the criminals.
The prisoners stand accused of parricide
Upon such evidence as justifies
Torture.

BEATRICE.--What evidence? This man's?

JUDGE.--Even so.

BEATRICE (_to_ MARZIO).--Come near. And who
art thou thus chosen forth
Out of the multitude of living men
To kill the innocent?

MARZIO.--I am Marzio,
Thy father's vassal.

BEATRICE.--Fix thine eyes on mine;
Answer to what I ask.
(_Turning to the_ JUDGES.)

I prithee mark
His countenance: unlike bold calumny
Which sometimes dares not speak the thing it looks,
He dares not look the thing he speaks, but bends
His gaze on the blind earth.
(_To_ MARZIO.) What! wilt thou say
That I did murder my own father?

MARZIO.--Oh!
Spare me! My brain swims round ... I cannot speak ...
It was that horrid torture forced the truth.
Take me away! Let her not look on me!
I am a guilty miserable wretch;
I have said all I know; now, let me die!

BEATRICE.--My Lords, if by my nature I had been
So stern, as to have planned the crime alleged,
Which your suspicions dictate to this slave,
And the rack makes him utter, do you think
I should have left this two-edged instrument
Of my misdeed; this man, this bloody knife
With my own name engraven on the heft,
Lying unsheathed amid a world of foes,
For my own death? That with such horrible need
For deepest silence, I should have neglected
So trivial a precaution, as the making
His tomb the keeper of a secret written
On a thief's memory? What is his poor life?
What are a thousand lives? A parricide
Had trampled them like dust; and, see, he lives!
(_Turning to_ MARZIO.) And thou ...

MARZIO.--Oh, spare me! Speak to me no more!
That stern yet piteous look, those solemn tones,
Wound worse than torture.

(_To the_ JUDGES.) I have told it all;
For pity's sake lead me away to death.

CAMILLO.--Guards, lead him nearer the Lady Beatrice;
He shrinks from her regard like autumn's leaf
From the keen breath of the serenest north.

BEATRICE.--O thou who tremblest on the giddy verge
Of life and death, pause ere thou answerest me;
So mayst thou answer God with less dismay:
What evil have we done thee? I, alas!
Have lived but on this earth a few sad years
And so my lot was ordered, that a father
First turned the moments of awakening life
To drops, each poisoning youth's sweet hope; and then
Stabbed with one blow my everlasting soul;
And my untainted fame; and even that peace
Which sleeps within the core of the heart's heart;
But the wound was not mortal; so my hate
Became the only worship I could lift
To our great Father, who in pity and love,
Armed thee, as thou dost say, to cut him off;
And thus his wrong becomes my accusation;
And art thou the accuser? If thou hopest
Mercy in heaven, show justice upon earth:
Worse than a bloody hand is a hard heart.
If thou hast done murders, made thy life's path
Over the trampled laws of God and man,
Rush not before thy Judge, and say: "My maker,
I have done this and more; for there was one
Who was most pure and innocent on earth;
And because she endured what never any
Guilty or innocent endured before:
Because her wrongs could not be told, not thought;
Because thy hand at length did rescue her;
I with my words killed her and all her kin."
Think, I adjure you, what it is to slay
The reverence living in the minds of men
Towards our ancient house, and stainless fame!
Think what it is to strangle infant pity,
Cradled in the belief of guileless looks,
Till it become a crime to suffer. Think
What 't is to blot with infamy and blood
All that which shows like innocence, and is,
Hear me, great God! I swear, most innocent,
So that the world lose all discrimination
Between the sly, fierce, wild regard of guilt,
And that which now compels thee to reply
To what I ask: Am I, or am I not
A parricide?

MARZIO.--Thou art not!

JUDGE.--What is this?

MARZIO.--I here declare those whom I did accuse
Are innocent. 'T is I alone am guilty.

JUDGE.--Drag him away to torments; let them be
Subtle and long drawn out, to tear the folds
Of the heart's inmost cell. Unbind him not
Till he confess.

MARZIO.--Torture me as ye will:
A keener pain has wrung a higher truth
From my last breath. She is most innocent!
Bloodhounds, not men, glut yourselves well with me;
I will not give you that fine piece of nature
To rend and ruin.
(_Exit_ MARZIO, _guarded_.)

CAMILLO.--What say ye now, my Lords?

JUDGE.--Let tortures strain the truth till it be white
As snow thrice sifted by the frozen wind.

CAMILLO.--Yet stained with blood.

JUDGE (_to_ BEATRICE).--Know you this paper, Lady?

BEATRICE.--Entrap me not with questions. Who stands here
As my accuser? Ha! wilt thou be he,
Who art my judge? Accuser, witness, judge,
What, all in one? Here is Orsino's name;
Where is Orsino? Let his eye meet mine.
What means this scrawl? Alas! ye know not what,
And therefore on the chance that it may be
Some evil, will ye kill us?

(_Enter an Officer._)

OFFICER.--Marzio's dead.

JUDGE.--What did he say?

OFFICER.--Nothing. As soon as we
Had bound him on the wheel, he smiled on us,
As one who baffles a deep adversary;
And holding his breath, died.

JUDGE.--There remains nothing
But to apply the question to those prisoners,
Who yet remain stubborn.

CAMILLO.--I overrule
Further proceedings, and in the behalf
Of these most innocent and noble persons
Will use my interest with the Holy Father.

JUDGE.--Let the Pope's pleasure then be done.
Meanwhile
Conduct these culprits each to separate cells;
And be the engines ready: for this night
If the Pope's resolution be as grave,
Pious, and just as once, I'll wring the truth
Out of those nerves and sinews, groan by groan.
(_Exeunt._)

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

FRA GIACOMO.

Alas, Fra Giacomo,
Too late!--but follow me;
Hush! draw the curtain,--so!--
She is dead, quite dead, you see.
Poor little lady! she lies
With the light gone out of her eyes,
But her features still wear that soft
Gray meditative expression,
Which you must have noticed oft,
And admired too, at confession.
How saintly she looks, and how meek!
Though this be the chamber of death,
I fancy I feel her breath
As I kiss her on the cheek.
With that pensive religious face,
She has gone to a holier place!
And I hardly appreciated her,--
Her praying, fasting, confessing,
Poorly, I own, I mated her;
I thought her too cold, and rated her
For her endless image-caressing.
Too saintly for me by far,
As pure and as cold as a star,
Not fashioned for kissing and pressing,--
But made for a heavenly crown.
Ay, father, let us go down,--
But first, if you please, your blessing.

Wine? No? Come, come, you must!
You'll bless it with your prayers,
And quaff a cup, I trust,
To the health of the saint up stairs?
My heart is aching so!
And I feel so weary and sad,
Through the blow that I have had,--
You'll sit, Fra Giacomo?
My friend! (and a friend I rank you
For the sake of that saint,)--nay, nay!
Here's the wine,--as you love me, stay!--
'T is Montepulciano!--Thank you.

Heigh-ho! 'T is now six summers
Since I won that angel and married her:
I was rich, not old, and carried her
Off in the face of all comers.
So fresh, yet so brimming with soul!
A tenderer morsel, I swear,
Never made the dull black coal
Of a monk's eye glitter and glare.
Your pardon!--nay, keep your chair!
I wander a little, but mean
No offence to the gray gaberdine;
Of the church, Fra Giacomo,
I'm a faithful upholder, you know,
But (humor me!) she was as sweet
As the saints in your convent windows,
So gentle, so meek, so discreet,
She knew not what lust does or sin does.
I'll confess, though, before we were one,
I deemed her less saintly, and thought
The blood in her veins had caught
Some natural warmth from the sun.
I was wrong,--I was blind as a bat,--
Brute that I was, how I blundered!
Though such a mistake as that
Might have occurred as pat
To ninety-nine men in a hundred.
Yourself, for example? you've seen her?
Spite her modest and pious demeanor,
And the manners so nice and precise,
Seemed there not color and light,
Bright motion and appetite,
That were scarcely consistent with _ice_?
Externals implying, you see,
Internals less saintly than human?--
Pray speak, for between you and me
You're not a bad judge of a woman!
A jest,--but a jest!--Very true:
'T is hardly becoming to jest,
And that saint up stairs at rest,--
Her soul may be listening, too!
I was always a brute of a fellow!
Well may your visage turn yellow,--
To think how I doubted and doubted,
Suspected, grumbled at, flouted
That golden-haired angel,--and solely
Because she was zealous and holy!
Noon and night and morn
She devoted herself to piety;
Not that she seemed to scorn
Or dislike her husband's society;
But the claims of her _soul_ superseded
All that I asked for or needed,
And her thoughts were far away
From the level of sinful clay,
And she trembled if earthly matters
Interfered with her _aves_ and _paters_,
Poor dove, she so fluttered in flying
Above the dim vapors of hell--
Bent on self-sanctifying--
That she never thought of trying
To save her husband as well.
And while she was duly elected
For place in the heavenly roll,
I (brute that I was!) suspected
Her manner of saving her soul.
So, half for the fun of the thing,
What did I (blasphemer!) but fling
On my shoulders the gown of a monk--
Whom I managed for that very day
To get safely out of the way--
And seat me, half sober, half drunk,
With the cowl thrown over my face,
In the father confessor's place.
_Eheu! benedicite!_
In her orthodox sweet simplicity,
With that pensive gray expression,
She sighfully knelt at confession,
While I bit my lips till they bled,
And dug my nails in my hand,
And heard with averted head
What I'd guessed and could understand.
Each word was a serpent's sting,
But, wrapt in my gloomy gown,
I sat, like a marble thing,
As she told me all!--SIT DOWN!

More wine, Fra Giacomo!
One cup,--if you love me! No?
What, have these dry lips drank
So deep of the sweets of pleasure--
_Sub rosa_, but quite without measure--
That Montepulciano tastes rank?
Come, drink! 't will bring the streaks
Of crimson back to your cheeks;
Come, drink again to the saint
Whose virtues you loved to paint,
Who, stretched on her wifely bed,
With the tender, grave expression
You used to admire at confession,
Lies poisoned, overhead!

Sit still,--or by heaven, you die!
Face to face, soul to soul, you and I
Have settled accounts, in a fine
Pleasant fashion, over our wine.
Stir not, and seek not to fly,--
Nay, whether or not, you are mine!
Thank Montepulciano for giving
You death in such delicate sips;
'T is not every monk ceases living
With so pleasant a taste on his lips;
But, lest Montepulciano unsurely should kiss,
Take this! and this! and this!

Cover him over, Pietro,
And bury him in the court below,--
You can be secret, lad, I know!
And, hark you, then to the convent go,--
Bid every bell of the convent toll,
And the monks say mass for your mistress' soul.

ROBERT BUCHANAN.

GINEVRA.

If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance
To Modena, where still religiously
Among her ancient trophies is preserved
Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs
Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandina),
Stop at a palace near the Reggio gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain thee; through their archèd walks,
Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse
Of knights and dames, such as in old romance,
And lovers, such as in heroic song,
Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,
That in the springtime, as alone they sat,
Venturing together on a tale of love,
Read only part that day.--A summer sun
Sets ere one half is seen; but ere thou go,
Enter the house--prythee, forget it not--
And look awhile upon a picture there.

'T is of a Lady in her earliest youth,
The last of that illustrious race;
Done by Zampieri--but I care not whom.
He who observes it, ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up when far away.

She sits inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half open, and her finger up,
As though she said "Beware!" her vest of gold
Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot,
An emerald stone in every golden clasp;
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls. But then her face,
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart,--
It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody!
Alone it hangs
Over a moldering heirloom, its companion,
An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by Antony of Trent
With Scripture stories from the life of Christ;
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes of some old Ancestor,
That, by the way--it may be true or false--
But don't forget the picture; and thou wilt not
When thou hast heard the tale they told me there.

She was an only child; from infancy
The joy, the pride, of an indulgent Sire;
Her Mother dying of the gift she gave,
That precious gift, what else remained to him?
The young Ginevra was his all in life,
Still as she grew, for ever in his sight;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,
She was all gentleness, all gayety,
Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour;
Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum;
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.

Great was the joy; but at the Bridal-feast,
When all sate down, the bride was wanting there,
Nor was she to be found! Her Father cried,
"'T is but to make a trial of our love!"
And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
'T was but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back, and flying still,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas, she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could anything be guessed,
But that she was not!
Weary of his life,
Francesco flew to Venice, and, forthwith,
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.
Orsini lived,--and long mightst thou have seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something,
Something he could not find, he knew not what.
When he was gone, the house remained awhile
Silent and tenantless,--then went to strangers.

Full fifty years were past, and all forgot,
When, on an idle day, a day of search
Mid the old lumber in the Gallery,
That moldering chest was noticed; and 't was said
By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,
"Why not remove it from its lurking-place?"
'T was done as soon as said; but on the way
It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton,
With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone,
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold!
All else had perished,--save a nuptial-ring,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both,
"GINEVRA."
There then had she found a grave!
Within that chest had she concealed herself,
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy;
When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there,
Fastened her down for ever!

SAMUEL ROGERS.

BERNARDO DEL CARPIO.

The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire,
And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire;
"I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive train,
I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!--oh, break my father's chain!"

"Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man this day;
Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet him on his way."
Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed,
And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed.

And lo! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glittering band,
With one that 'midst them stately rode, as a leader in the land;
"Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he,
The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to see."

His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his
cheek's blood came and went;
He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there,
dismounting, bent;
A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took,--
What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook?

That hand was cold,--a frozen thing,--it dropped from his like lead,--
He looked up to the face above,--the face was of the dead!
A plume waved o'er the noble brow,--the brow was fixed and white;--
He met at last his father's eyes,--but in them was no sight!

Up from the ground he sprung, and gazed, but who could paint that gaze?
They hushed their very hearts, that saw its horror and amaze;
They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood,
For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood.

"Father!" at length he murmured low, and wept like childhood then:
Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men!
He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown;
He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sate down.

Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow,--
"No more, there is no more," he said, "to lift the sword for now;
My king is false, my hope betrayed; my father--oh! the worth,
The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from earth!

"I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire! beside thee yet,
I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met!
Thou wouldst have known my spirit then; for thee my fields were won;
And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!"

Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein,
Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier train;
And with a fierce o'ermastering grasp, the raging war-horse led,
And sternly set them face to face,--the king before the dead!

"Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss?
Be still, and gaze thou on, false king, and tell me what is this?
The voice, the glance, the heart I sought--give answer, where are they?
If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life
through this cold clay!

"Into these glassy eyes put light;--be still! keep down thine ire!
Bid these white lips a blessing speak,--this earth is not my sire!
Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed,
Thou canst not?--and a king!--his dust be mountains on thy head!"

He loosed the steed; his slack hand fell; upon the silent face
He cast one long, deep, troubled look,--then turned
from that sad place.
His hope was crushed, his after-fate untold in martial strain:
His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain.

FELICIA HEMANS.

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON.

Eternal spirit of the chainless mind!
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art,
For there thy habitation is the heart,--
The heart which love of thee alone can bind;
And when thy sons to fetters are consigned,--
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom,--
Their country conquers with their martyrdom,
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.
Chillon! thy prison is a holy place,
And thy sad floor an altar,--for 't was trod,
Until his very steps have left a trace
Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod,
By Bonnivard!--May none those marks efface!
For they appeal from tyranny to God.
My hair is gray, but not with years,
Nor grew it white
In a single night,
As men's have grown from sudden fears:
My limbs are bowed, though not with toil,
But rusted with a vile repose,
For they have been a dungeon spoil,
And mine has been the fate of those
To whom the goodly earth and air
Are banned, and barred,--forbidden fare;
But this was for my father's faith
I suffered chains and courted death;
That father perished at the stake
For tenets he would not forsake;
And for the same his lineal race
In darkness found a dwelling-place;
We were seven,--who now are one,
Six in youth, and one in age,
Finished as they had begun,
Proud of Persecution's rage;
One in fire, and two in field,
Their belief with blood have sealed!
Dying as their father died,
For the God their foes denied;
Three were in a dungeon cast,
Of whom this wreck is left the last.

There are seven pillars of Gothic mould
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old,
There are seven columns, massy and gray,
Dim with a dull imprisoned ray,--
A sunbeam which hath lost its way,
And through the crevice and the cleft
Of the thick wall is fallen and left,
Creeping o'er the floor so damp,
Like a marsh's meteor lamp,--
And in each pillar there is a ring,
And in each ring there is a chain;
That iron is a cankering thing;
For in these limbs its teeth remain
With marks that will not wear away,
Till I have done with this new day,
Which now is painful to these eyes,
Which have not seen the sun to rise
For years,--I cannot count them o'er,
I lost their long and heavy score
When my last brother drooped and died,
And I lay living by his side.

They chained us each to a column stone,
And we were three, yet each alone;
We could not move a single pace,
We could not see each other's face,
But with that pale and livid light
That made us strangers in our sight;
And thus together, yet apart,
Fettered in hand, but pined in heart;
'T was still some solace, in the dearth
Of the pure elements of earth,
To hearken to each other's speech,
And each turn comforter to each
With some new hope, or legend old,
Or song heroically bold;
But even these at length grew cold.
Our voices took a dreary tone,
An echo of the dungeon-stone,
A grating sound,-not full and free
As they of yore were wont to be;
It might be fancy,--but to me
They never sounded like our own.

I was the eldest of the three,
And to uphold and cheer the rest
I ought to do--and did--my best,
And each did well in his degree.
The youngest, whom my father loved,
Because our mother's brow was given
To him, with eyes as blue as heaven,--
For him my soul was sorely moved;
And truly might it be distrest
To see such bird in such a nest;
For he was beautiful as day
(When day was beautiful to me
As to young eagles, being free),--
A polar day, which will not see
A sunset till its summer's gone,
Its sleepless summer of long light,
The snow-clad offspring of the sun;
And thus he was as pure and bright,
And in his natural spirit gay,
With tears for naught but others' ills,
And then they flowed like mountain rills,
Unless he could assuage the woe
Which he abhorred to view below.

The other was as pure of mind,
But formed to combat with his kind;
Strong in his frame, and of a mood
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood,
And perished in the foremost rank
With joy;--but not in chains to pine;
His spirit withered with their clank,
I saw it silently decline,--
And so perchance in sooth did mine;
But yet I forced it on to cheer
Those relics of a home so dear.
He was a hunter of the hills,
Had followed there the deer and wolf;
To him this dungeon was a gulf
And fettered feet the worst of ills.

Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls:
A thousand feet in depth below
Its massy waters meet and flow;
Thus much the fathom-line was sent
From Chillon's snow-white battlement,
Which round about the wave inthralls;
And double dungeon wall and wave
Have made,--and like a living grave.
Below the surface of the lake
The dark vault lies wherein we lay,
We heard it ripple night and day;
Sounding o'er our heads it knocked;
And I have felt the winter's spray
Wash through the bars when winds were high
And wanton in the happy sky;
And then the very rock hath rocked,
And I have felt it shake, unshocked,
Because I could have smiled to see
The death that would have set me free.

I said my nearer brother pined,
I said his mighty heart declined,
He loathed and put away his food;
It was not that 't was coarse and rude,
For we were used to hunter's fare,
And for the like had little care;
The milk drawn from the mountain goat
Was changed for water from the moat.
Our bread was such as captives' tears
Have moistened many a thousand years,
Since man first pent his fellow-men
Like brutes within an iron den;
But what were these to us or him?
These wasted not his heart or limb;
My brother's soul was of that mould
Which in a palace had grown cold,
Had his free breathing been denied
The range of the steep mountain's side;
But why delay the truth?--he died.
I saw, and could not hold his head,
Nor reach his dying hand--nor dead--
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain,
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain.
He died,--and they unlocked his chain,
And scooped for him a shallow grave
Even from the cold earth of our cave.
I begged them, as a boon, to lay
His corse in dust whereon the day
Might shine,--it was a foolish thought,
But then within my brain it wrought,
That even in death his free-born breast
In such a dungeon could not rest.
I might have spared my idle prayer,--
They coldly laughed, and laid him there.
The flat and turfless earth above
The being we so much did love;
His empty chain above it leant,
Such murder's fitting monument!

But he, the favorite and the flower,
Most cherished since his natal hour,
His mother's image in fair face,
The infant love of all his race,
His martyred father's dearest thought,
My latest care, for whom I sought
To hoard my life, that his might be
Less wretched now, and one day free;
He, too, who yet had held untired
A spirit natural or inspired,--
He, too, was struck, and day by day
Was withered on the stalk away.
O God! it is a fearful thing
To see the human soul take wing
In any shape, in any mood:--
I've seen it rushing forth in blood,
I've seen it on the breaking ocean
Strive with a swoln convulsive motion,
I've seen the sick and ghastly bed
Of Sin delirious with its dread:
But these were horrors,--this was woe
Unmixed with such,--but sure and slow:
He faded, and so calm and meek,
So softly worn, so sweetly weak,
So tearless, yet so tender--kind,
And grieved for those he left behind;
With all the while a cheek whose bloom
Was as a mockery of the tomb,
Whose tints as gently sunk away
As a departing rainbow's ray,--
An eye of most transparent light,
That almost made the dungeon bright,
And not a word of murmur,--not
A groan o'er his untimely lot,--
A little talk of better days,
A little hope my own to raise,
For I was sunk in silence,--lost
In this last loss, of all the most;
And then the sighs he would suppress
Of fainting nature's feebleness,
More slowly drawn, grew less and less:
I listened, but I could not hear,--
I called, for I was wild with fear;
I knew 't was hopeless, but my dread
Would not be thus admonishèd;
I called, and thought I heard a sound,--
I burst my chain with one strong bound,
And rushed to him:--I found him not,
_I_ only stirred in this black spot,
_I_ only lived,--_I_ only drew
The accursed breath of dungeon-dew;
The last--the sole--the dearest link
Between me and the eternal brink,
Which bound me to my failing race,
Was broken in this fatal place.
One on the earth, and one beneath--
My brothers--both had ceased to breathe.
I took that hand which lay so still,
Alas! my own was full as chill;
I had not strength to stir or strive,
But felt that I was still alive,--
A frantic feeling when we know
That what we love shall ne'er be so.
I know not why
I could not die,
I had no earthly hope--but faith,
And that forbade a selfish death.

What next befell me then and there
I know not well--I never knew.
First came the loss of light and air,
And then of darkness too;
I had no thought, no feeling--none:
Among the stones I stood a stone,
And was, scarce conscious what I wist,
As shrubless crags within the mist;
For all was blank and bleak and gray;
It was not night,--it was not day;
It was not even the dungeon-light,
So hateful to my heavy sight;
But vacancy absorbing space,
And fixedness, without a place:
There were no stars--no earth--no time--
No check--no change--no good--no crime:
But silence, and a stirless breath
Which neither was of life nor death:--
A sea of stagnant idleness,
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless!

A light broke in upon my brain,--
It was the carol of a bird;
It ceased, and then it came again,--
The sweetest song ear ever heard,
And mine was thankful till my eyes
Ran over with the glad surprise,
And they that moment could not see
I was the mate of misery;
But then by dull degrees came back
My senses to their wonted track,
I saw the dungeon walls and floor
Close slowly round me as before,
I saw the glimmer of the sun
Creeping as it before had done,
But through the crevice where it came
That bird was perched, as fond and tame,
And tamer than upon the tree;
A lovely bird, with azure wings,
And song that said a thousand things,
And seemed to say them all for me!
I never saw its like before,
I ne'er shall see its likeness more.
It seemed, like me, to want a mate,
But was not half so desolate,
And it was come to love me when
None lived to love me so again,
And cheering from my dungeon's brink,
Had brought me back to feel and think.
I know not if it late were free,
Or broke its cage to perch on mine,
But knowing well captivity,
Sweet bird! I could not wish for thine!
Or if it were, in wingèd guise,
A visitant from Paradise:
For--Heaven forgive that thought! the while
Which made me both to weep and smile--
I sometimes deemed that it might be
My brother's soul come down to me;
But then at last away it flew,
And then 't was mortal,--well I knew,
For he would never thus have flown,
And left me twice so doubly lone,--
Lone--as the corse within its shroud,
Lone--as a solitary cloud,
A single cloud on a sunny day,
While all the rest of heaven is clear,
A frown upon the atmosphere
That hath no business to appear
When skies are blue and earth is gay.

A kind of change came in my fate,
My keepers grew compassionate;
I know not what had made them so,
They were inured to sights of woe,
But so it was:--my broken chain
With links unfastened did remain,
And it was liberty to stride
Along my cell from side to side,
And up and down, and then athwart,
And tread it over every part;
And round the pillars one by one,
Returning where my walk begun,
Avoiding only, as I trod,
My brothers' graves without a sod;
For if I thought with heedless tread
My step profaned their lowly bed,
My breath came gaspingly and thick,
And my crushed heart fell blind and sick.

I made a footing in the wall,
It was not therefrom to escape,
For I had buried one and all
Who loved me in a human shape:
And the whole earth would henceforth be
A wider prison unto me:
No child,--no sire,--no kin had I,
No partner in my misery;
I thought of this and I was glad,
For thought of them had made me mad;
But I was curious to ascend
To my barred windows, and to bend
Once more, upon the mountains high,
The quiet of a loving eye.

I saw them,--and they were the same,
They were not changed like me in frame;
I saw their thousand years of snow
On high,--their wide long lake below,
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow;
I heard the torrents leap and gush
O'er channelled rock and broken bush;
I saw the white-walled distant town,
And whiter sails go skimming down;
And then there was a little isle,
Which in my very face did smile,
The only one in view;
A small green isle, it seemed no more,
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor,
But in it there were three tall trees,
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze,
And by it there were waters flowing,
And on it there were young flowers growing,
Of gentle breath and hue.
The fish swam by the castle wall,
And they seemed joyous each and all;
The eagle rode the rising blast,--
Methought he never flew so fast
As then to me he seemed to fly,
And then new tears came in my eye,
And I felt troubled,--and would fain
I had not left my recent chain;
And when I did descend again,
The darkness of my dim abode
Fell on me as a heavy load;
It was as in a new-dug grave
Closing o'er one we sought to save,
And yet my glance, too much oppressed,
Had almost need of such a rest.

It might be months, or years, or days,
I kept no count,--I took no note,
I had no hope my eyes to raise,
And clear them of their dreary mote;
At last men came to set me free,
I asked not why and recked not where,
It was at length the same to me,
Fettered or fetterless to be,
I learned to love despair.
And thus when they appeared at last,
And all my bonds aside were cast,
These heavy walls to me had grown
A hermitage, and all my own!
And half I felt as they were come
To tear me from a second home;
With spiders I had friendship made,
And watched them in their sullen trade,
Had seen the mice by moonlight play,
And why should I feel less than they?
We were all inmates of one place,
And I, the monarch of each race,
Had power to kill,--yet, strange to tell;
In quiet we had learned to dwell,--
My very chains and I grew friends,
So much a long communion tends
To make us what we are:--even I
Regained my freedom with a sigh.

LORD BYRON.

BEFORE SEDAN.

"The dead hand clasped a letter."
--SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT.

Here in this leafy place,
Quiet he lies,
Cold, with his sightless face
Turned to the skies;
'T is but another dead;--
All you can say is said.

Carry his body hence,--
Kings must have slaves;
Kings climb to eminence
Over men's graves.
So this man's eye is dim;--
Throw the earth over him.

What was the white you touched,
There at his side?
Paper his hand had clutched
Tight ere he died;
Message or wish, may be:--
Smooth out the folds and see.

Hardly the worst of us
Here could have smiled!--
Only the tremulous
Words of a child:--
Prattle, that had for stops
Just a few ruddy drops.

Look. She is sad to miss,
Morning and night,
His--her dead father's--kiss,
Tries to be bright,
Good to mamma, and sweet.
That is all. "_Marguerite._"

Ah, if beside the dead
Slumbered the pain!
Ah, if the hearts that bled
Slept with the slain!
If the grief died!--But no:--
Death will not have it so.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

IVÀN IVÀNOVITCH.

Early one winter morn, in such a village as this,
Snow-whitened everywhere except the middle road
Ice-roughed by track of sledge, there worked by his abode
Ivàn Ivànovitch, the carpenter, employed
On a huge shipmast trunk; his axe now trimmed and toyed
With branch and twig, and now some chop athwart the bole

[Illustration: ROBERT BROWNING.
_After a life-photograph by Elliott & Fry, London._]

Changed bole to billets, bared at once the sap and soul.
About him, watched the work his neighbors sheep-skin-clad;
Each bearded mouth puffed steam, each gray eye twinkled glad
To see the sturdy arm which, never stopping play,
Proved strong man's blood still boils, freeze winter as he may.
Sudden, a burst of bells. Out of the road, on edge
Of the hamlet--horse's hoofs galloping. "How, a sledge?
What 's here?" cried all as--in, up to the open space,
Workyard and market-ground, folk's common meeting-place,--
Stumbled on, till he fell, in one last bound for life,
A horse; and, at his heels, a sledge held--"Dmìtri's wife!
Back without Dmìtri too! and children--where are they?
Only a frozen corpse!"

They drew it forth: then--"Nay,
Not dead, though like to die! Gone hence a month ago:
Home again, this rough jaunt--alone through night and snow--
What can the cause be? Hark--Droug, old horse, how he groans:
His day 's done! Chafe away, keep chafing, for she moans:
She's coming to! Give here: see, motherkin, your friends!
Cheer up, all safe at home! Warm inside makes amends
For outside cold,--sup quick! Don't look as we were bears!
What is it startles you? What strange adventure stares
Up at us in your face? You know friends--which is which?
I'm Vàssili, he's Sergeì, Ivàn Ivànovitch"--

At the word, the woman's eyes, slow-wandering till they neared
The blue eyes o'er the bush of honey-colored beard,
Took in full light and sense and--torn to rags, some dream
Which hid the naked truth--O loud and long the scream
She gave, as if all power of voice within her throat
Poured itself wild away to waste in one dread note!
Then followed gasps and sobs, and then the steady flow
Of kindly tears: the brain was saved, a man might know.
Down fell her face upon the good friend's propping knee;
His broad hands smoothed her head, as fain to brush it free
From fancies, swarms that stung like bees unhived. He soothed--
"Loukèria, Loùscha!"--still he, fondling, smoothed and smoothed.
At last her lips formed speech.

"Ivàn, dear--you indeed?
You, just the same dear you! While I ... Oh, intercede,
Sweet Mother, with thy Son Almighty--let his might
Bring yesterday once more, undo all done last night!
But this time yesterday, Ivàn, I sat like you,
A child on either knee, and, dearer than the two,
A babe inside my arms, close to my heart--that 's lost
In morsels o'er the snow! Father, Son, Holy Ghost,
Cannot you bring again my blessèd yesterday?"

When no more tears would flow, she told her tale: this way.

"Maybe, a month ago,--was it not?--news came here,
They wanted, deeper down, good workmen fit to rear
A church and roof it in. 'We'll go,' my husband said:
'None understands like me to melt and mould their lead.'
So, friends here helped us off--Ivàn, dear, you the first!
How gay we jingled forth, all five--(my heart will burst)--
While Dmìtri shook the reins, urged Droug upon his track!

"Well, soon the month ran out, we just were coming back,
When yesterday--behold, the village was on fire!
Fire ran from house to house. What help, as, nigh and nigher,
The flames came furious? 'Haste,' cried Dmìtri, 'men must do
The little good man may: to sledge and in with you,
You and our three! We check the fire by laying flat
Each building in its path,--I needs must stay for that,--
But you ... no time for talk! Wrap round you every rug,
Cover the couple close,--you'll have the babe to hug.
No care to guide old Droug, he knows his way, by guess,
Once start him on the road: but chirrup, none the less!
The snow lies glib as glass and hard as steel, and soon
You'll have rise, fine and full, a marvel of a moon.
Hold straight up, all the same, this lighted twist of pitch!
Once home and with our friend Ivàn Ivànovitch,
All 's safe: I have my pay in pouch, all 's right with me,
So I but find as safe you and our precious three!
Off, Droug!'--because the flames had reached us, and the men
Shouted, 'But lend a hand, Dmìtri--as good as ten!'
"So, in we bundled--I and those God gave me once;
Old Droug, that 's stiff at first, seemed youthful for the nonce:
He understood the case, galloping straight ahead.
Out came the moon: my twist soon dwindled, feebly red
In that unnatural day--yes, daylight bred between
Moonlight and snow-light, lamped those grotto-depths which screen
Such devils from God's eye. Ah, pines, how straight you grow,
Nor bend one pitying branch, true breed of brutal snow!
Some undergrowth had served to keep the devils blind
While we escaped outside their border!

"Was that--wind?
Anyhow, Droug starts, stops, back go his ears, he snuffs,
Snorts,--never such a snort! then plunges, knows the sough 's
Only the wind: yet, no--our breath goes up too straight!
Still the low sound,--less low, loud, louder, at a rate
There 's no mistaking more! Shall I lean out--look--learn
The truth whatever it be? Pad, pad! At last, I turn--

"'T is the regular pad of the wolves in pursuit of
the life in the sledge!
An army they are: close-packed they press like the thrust of a wedge:
They increase as they hunt: for I see, through the
pine-trunks ranged each side,
Slip forth new fiend and fiend, make wider and still more wide
The four-footed steady advance. The foremost--none may pass:
They are the elders and lead the line, eye and eye
--green-glowing brass!
But a long way distant still. Droug, save us! He does his best:
Yet they gain on us, gain, till they reach,--one
reaches ... How utter the rest?
O that Satan-faced first of the band! How he lolls
out the length of his tongue,
How he laughs and lets gleam his white teeth!
He is on me, his paws pry among
The wraps and the rugs! O my pair, my twin-pigeons,
lie still and seem dead!
Stepàn, he shall never have you for a meal,--
here's your mother instead!
No, he will not be counselled--must cry, poor Stiòpka,
so foolish! though first
Of my boy-brood, he was not the best: nay, neighbors
called him the worst:
He was puny, an undersized slip,--a darling to me, all the same!
But little there was to be praised in the boy, and a plenty to blame.
I loved him with heart and soul, yes--but, deal him a blow for a fault,
He would sulk for whole days. 'Foolish boy!
lie still or the villain will vault,
Will snatch you from over my head!' No use! he cries,
he screams,--who can hold
Fast a boy in frenzy of fear! It follows--as I foretold!
The Satan-face snatched and snapped: I tugged, I tore, and then
His brother too needs must shriek! If one must go, 't is men
The Tsar needs, so we hear, not ailing boys! Perhaps
My hands relaxed their grasp, got tangled in the wraps:
God, he was gone! I looked: there tumbled the cursed crew,
Each fighting for a share: too busy to pursue!
That's so far gain at least: Droug, gallop another verst
Or two, or three--God sends we beat them, arrive the first!
A mother who boasts two boys was ever accounted rich:
Some have not a boy: some have, but lose him,--God knows which
Is worse: how pitiful to see your weakling pine
And pale and pass away! Strong brats, this pair of mine!

"O misery! for while I settle to what near seems
Content, I am 'ware again of the tramp, and again there gleams--
Point and point--the line, eyes, levelled green brassy fire!
So soon is resumed your chase? Will nothing appease, naught tire
The furies? And yet I think--I am certain the race is slack,
And the numbers are nothing like. Not a quarter of the pack!
Feasters and those full-fed are staying behind ... Ah, why?
We 'll sorrow for that too soon! Now,--gallop,
reach home and die,
Nor ever again leave house, to trust our life in the trap
For life--we call a sledge! Teriòscha, in my lap!
Yes, I 'll lie down upon you, tight-tie you with the strings
Here--of my heart! No fear, this time, your mother flings ...
Flings? I flung? Never! But think!--a woman, after all,
Contending with a wolf! Save you I must and shall,
Terentiì!

"How now? What, you still head the race,
Your eyes and tongue and teeth crave fresh food,
Satan-face?
Flash again?
There and there! Plain I struck green fire out!
All a poor fist can do to damage eyes proves vain!
My fist--why not crunch that? He is wanton for ... O God,
Why give this wolf his taste? Common wolves scrape and prod
The earth till out they scratch some corpse--mere putrid flesh!
Why must this glutton leave the faded, choose the fresh?
Terentiì--God, feel!--his neck keeps fast thy bag
Of holy things, saints' bones, this Satan-face will drag
Forth, and devour along with him, our Pope declared
The relics were to save from danger!

"Spurned, not spared!
'T was through my arms, crossed arms, he--nuzzling now with snout,
Now ripping, tooth and claw--plucked, pulled Terentiì out,
A prize indeed! I saw--how could I else but see?--
My precious one--I bit to hold back--pulled from me!
Up came the others, fell to dancing--did the imps!--
Skipped as they scampered round. There 's one is gray, and limps:
Who knows but old bad Màrpha--she always owed me spite
And envied me my births--skulks out of doors at night
And turns into a wolf, and joins the sisterhood,
And laps the youthful life, then slinks from out the wood,
Squats down at the door by dawn, spins there demure as erst
--No strength, old crone--not she!--to crawl forth half a verst!

"Well, I escaped with one: 'twixt one and none there lies
The space 'twixt heaven and hell. And see, a rose-light dyes
The endmost snow: 't is dawn, 't is day, 't is safe at home!
We have outwitted you! Ay, monsters, snarl and foam,
Fight each the other fiend, disputing for a share,--
Forgetful in your greed, our finest off we bear,
Tough Droug and I,--my babe, my boy that shall be man,
My man that shall be more, do all a hunter can
To trace and follow and find and catch and crucify
Wolves, wolfkins, all your crew! A thousand deaths shall die
The whimperingest cub that ever squeezed the teat!
'Take that!' we 'll stab you with,--'the tenderness we met
When, wretches, you danced round,--not this, thank God--not this!
Hellhounds, we balk you!'

"But--Ah, God above!--Bliss, bliss,--
Not the band, no! And yet--yes, for Droug knows him! One--
This only of them all has said 'She saves a son!'
His fellows disbelieve such luck: but he believes,
He lets them pick the bones, laugh at him in their sleeves:
He's off and after us,--one speck, one spot, one ball
Grows bigger, bound on bound,--one wolf as good as all!
Oh, but I know the trick! Have at the snaky tongue!
That 's the right way with wolves! Go, tell your mates I wrung
The panting morsel out, left you to howl your worst!
Now for it--now! Ah me, I know him--thrice-accurst
Satan-face,--him to the end my foe!

"All fight's in vain:
This time the green brass points pierce to my very brain.
I fall--fall as I ought--quite on the babe I guard:
I overspread with flesh the whole of him. Too hard
To die this way, torn piecemeal? Move hence? Not I--one inch!
Gnaw through me, through and through: flat thus I lie nor flinch!
O God, the feel of the fang furrowing my shoulder!--see!
It grinds--it grates the bone. O Kìrill under me,
Could I do more? Besides he knew the wolf's way to win:
I clung, closed round like wax: yet in he wedged and in,
Past my neck, past my breasts, my heart, until ... how feels
The onion-bulb your knife parts, pushing through its peels,
Till out you scoop its clove wherein lie stalk and leaf
And bloom and seed unborn?

"That slew me: yes, in brief,
I died then, dead I lay doubtlessly till Droug stopped
Here, I suppose. I come to life, I find me propped
Thus,--how or when or why--I know not. Tell me, friends,
All was a dream: laugh quick and say the nightmare ends!
Soon I shall find my house: 't is over there: in proof,
Save for that chimney heaped with snow, you'd see the roof
Which holds my three--my two--my one--not one?

"Life 's mixed
With misery, yet we live--must live. The Satan fixed
His face on mine so fast, I took its print as pitch
Takes what it cools beneath. Ivàn Ivànovitch,
'T is you unharden me, you thaw, disperse the thing!
Only keep looking kind, the horror will not cling,
Your face smooths fast away each print of Satan. Tears
--What good they do! Life's sweet, and all its after-years,
Ivàn Ivànovitch, I owe you! Yours am I!
May God reward you, dear!"

Down she sank. Solemnly
Ivàn rose, raised his axe,--for fitly as she knelt,
Her head lay: well apart, each side, her arms hung,--dealt
Lightning-swift thunder-strong one blow--no need of more!
Headless she knelt on still: that pine was sound of core
(Neighbors used to say)--cast-iron-kernelled--which
Taxed for a second stroke Ivàn Ivànovitch.

The man was scant of words as strokes. "It had to be:
I could no other: God it was, bade 'Act for me!'"
Then stooping, peering round--what is it now he lacks?
A proper strip of bark wherewith to wipe his axe,
Which done, he turns, goes in, closes the door behind.
The others mute remain, watching the blood-snake wind
Into a hiding-place among the splinter-heaps.

At length, still mute, all move: one lifts--from where it steeps
Redder each ruddy rag of pine--the head: two more
Take up the dripping body: then, mute still as before,
Move in a sort of march, march on till marching ends
Opposite to the church; where halting,--who suspends,
By its long hair, the thing, deposits in its place
The piteous head: once more the body shows no trace
Of harm done: there lies whole the Loùscha, maid and wife
And mother, loved until this latest of her life.
Then all sit on the bank of snow which bounds a space
Kept free before the porch of judgment: just the place!

Presently all the souls, man, woman, child which make
The village up, are found assembling for the sake
Of what is to be done. The very Jews are there:
A Gypsy-troop, though bound with horses for the Fair,
Squats with the rest. Each heart with its conception seethes
And simmers, but no tongue speaks: one may say,--none breathes.

Anon from out the church totters the Pope--the priest--
Hardly alive, so old, a hundred years at least.
With him, the Commune's head, a hoary senior too,
Stàrosta, that's his style,--like Equity Judge with you,--
Natural Jurisconsult: then, fenced about with furs,
Pomeschik--Lord of the Land, who wields--and none demurs--
A power of life and death. They stoop, survey the corpse.

Then, straightened on his staff, the Stàrosta--the thorpe's
Sagaciousest old man--hears what you just have heard,
From Droug's first inrush, all, up to Ivàn's last word--
"God bade me act for him: I dared not disobey!"

Silence--the Pomeschik broke with "A wild wrong way
Of righting wrong--if wrong there were, such wrath to rouse!
Why was not law observed?

* * * * *

Ivàn Ivànovitch has done a deed that's named
Murder by law and me: who doubts, may speak unblamed!"

All turned to the old Pope. "Ay, children, I am old--
How old, myself have got to know no longer. Rolled
Quite round, my orb of life, from infancy to age,
Seems passing back again to youth. A certain stage
At least I reach, or dream I reach, where I discern
Truer truths, laws behold more lawlike than we learn
When first we set our foot to tread the course I trod
With man to guide my steps: who leads me now is God.
'Your young men shall see visions:' and in my youth I saw
And paid obedience to man's visionary law:
'Your old men shall dream dreams.' And, in my age, a hand
Conducts me through the cloud round law to where I stand
Firm on its base,--know cause, who, before, knew effect.

* * * * *

I hold he saw
The unexampled sin, ordained the novel law,
Whereof first instrument was first intelligence
Found loyal here. I hold that, failing human sense,
The very earth had oped, sky fallen, to efface
Humanity's new wrong, motherhood's first disgrace.
Earth oped not, neither fell the sky, for prompt was found
A man and man enough, head-sober and heart-sound
Ready to hear God's voice, resolute to obey.
Ivàn Ivànovitch, I hold, has done, this day,
No otherwise than did, in ages long ago,
Moses when he made known the purport of that flow
Of fire athwart the law's twain-tables! I proclaim
Ivàn Ivànovitch God's servant!"

* * * * *

When the Amen grew dull
And died away and left acquittal plain adjudged,
"Amen!" last sighed the lord. "There's none shall say I grudged
Escape from punishment in such a novel case.
Deferring to old age and holy life,--be grace
Granted! say I. No less, scruples might shake a sense
Firmer than I boast mine. Law's law, and evidence
Of breach therein lies plain,--blood-red-bright--all may see!
Yet all absolve the deed: absolved the deed must be!"

* * * * *

So, while the youngers raised the corpse, the elders trooped
Silently to the house: where halting, some one stooped,
Listened beside the door; all there was silent too.
Then they held counsel; then pushed door and, passing through,
Stood in the murderer's presence.

Ivàn Ivànovitch
Knelt, building on the floor that Kremlin rare and rich
He deftly cut and carved on lazy winter nights.
Some five young faces watched, breathlessly, as, to rights,
Piece upon piece, he reared the fabric nigh complete.
Stèscha, Ivàn's old mother, sat spinning by the heat
Of the oven where his wife Kàtia stood baking bread.
Ivàn's self, as he turned his honey-colored head,
Was just in the act to drop, 'twixt fir-cones,--each a dome,
The scooped-out yellow gourd presumably the home
Of Kolokol the Big: the bell, therein to hitch,
--An acorn-cup--was ready: Ivàn Ivànovitch
Turned with it in his mouth.

They told him he was free
As air to walk abroad. "How otherwise?" asked he.

ROBERT BROWNING.

A DAGGER OF THE MIND.

FROM "MACBETH," ACT II. SC. 1.

[MACBETH, before the murder of Duncan, meditating alone,
sees the image of a dagger in the air, and thus soliloquizes:]

Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee:--
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressèd brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going;
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still;
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not so before.--There's no such thing:
It is the bloody business, which informs
Thus to mine eyes.--Now o'er the one half world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtained sleep; witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings; and withered murder,
Alarumed by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost.--Thou sure and firm-set earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
The very stones prate of my whereabout,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it.--Whiles I threat, he lives:
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.
(_A bell rings._)

I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.
Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven or to hell.

SHAKESPEARE.

THE MURDER.

FROM "MACBETH," ACT II. SC. 2.

SCENE _in the Castle. Enter_ LADY MACBETH.

LADY MACBETH.--That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold,
What hath quenched them hath given me fire. Hark!--Peace!
It was the owl that shrieked, the fatal bellman,
Which gives the stern'st good night. He is about it:
The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms
Do mark their charge with snores: I have drugged their possets,
That death and nature do contend about them,
Whether they live or die.

MACBETH (_within_).--Who's there? What, ho!

LADY MACBETH.--Alack, I am afraid they have awaked
And 't is not done:--the attempt and not the deed
Confounds us.--Hark!--I laid their daggers ready;
He could not miss them.--Had he not resembled
My father, as he slept, I had done 't.--My husband!

(_Enter_ MACBETH.)

MACBETH.--I have done the deed. Didst thou
not hear a noise?

LADY MACBETH.--I heard the owl scream,
and the crickets cry.
Did not you speak?

MACBETH.--When?

LADY MACBETH.--Now.

MACBETH.--As I descended?

LADY MACBETH.--Ay.

MACBETH.--Hark!--
Who lies i' the second chamber?

LADY MACBETH.--Donalbain.

MACBETH (_looking on his hands_).--This is a sorry sight.

LADY MACBETH.--A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight.

MACBETH.--There's one did laugh in 's sleep, and one cried,
"Murder!"
That they did wake each other: I stood and heard them:
But they did say their prayers, and addressed them
Again to sleep.

LADY MACBETH.--There are two lodged together.

MACBETH.--One cried, "God bless us!" and, "Amen," the other;
As they had seen me with these hangman's hands.
Listening their fear, I could not say, "Amen,"
When they did say, "God bless us."

LADY MACBETH.--Consider it not so deeply.

MACBETH.--But wherefore could not I pronounce "Amen"?
I had most need of blessing, and "Amen"
Stuck in my throat.

LADY MACBETH.--These deeds must not be thought
After these ways; so, it will make us mad.

MACBETH.--Methought I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more!
Macbeth does murder sleep,"--the innocent sleep,
Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast,--

LADY MACBETH.--What do you mean?

MACBETH.--Still it cried, "Sleep no more!" to all the house:
"Glamis hath murdered sleep; and therefore Cawdor
Shall sleep no more,--Macbeth shall sleep no more!"

LADY MACBETH.--Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane,
You do unbend your noble strength, to think
So brainsickly of things.--Go, get some water,
And wash this filthy witness from your hand.
Why did you bring these daggers from the place?
They must lie there: go carry them; and smear
The sleepy grooms with blood.

MACBETH.--I'll go no more!
I am afraid to think what I have done;
Look on 't again, I dare not.

LADY MACBETH.--Infirm of purpose!
Give me the daggers: the sleeping, and the dead,
Are but as pictures: 't is the eye of childhood
That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed,
I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal;
For it must seem their guilt.
[_Exit. Knocking within._

MACBETH.--Whence is that knocking?
How is 't with me, when every noise appalls me?
What hands are here! Ha! they pluck out mine eyes!
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
Making the green--one red.

(_Re-enter_ LADY MACBETH.)

LADY MACBETH.--My hands are of your color; but I shame
To wear a heart so white. (_Knocking._) I hear a knocking
At the south entry:--retire we to our chamber:
A little water clears us of this deed:
How easy is it then! Your constancy
Hath left you unattended. (_Knocking._) Hark, more knocking.
Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us,
And show us to be watchers:--be not lost
So poorly in your thoughts.

MACBETH.--To know my deed, 't were best not know myself.
(_Knocking._)
Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst.

SHAKESPEARE.

THE TWA CORBIES.

As I was walking all alane,
I heard two corbies making a mane;
The tane unto the t'other say,
"Where sall we gang and dine to-day?"

"In behint yon auld fail dyke,
I wot there lies a new-slain knight;
And nae body kens that he lies there,
But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.

"His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady's ta'en another mate,
So we may make our dinner sweet.

"Ye 'll sit on his white hause bane,
And I'll pike out his bonny blue een:
Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair,
We 'll theek our nest when it grows bare.

"Mony a one for him makes mane,
But nane sall ken whare he is gane;
O'er his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair."

ANONYMOUS.

THE SACK OF BALTIMORE.

[Baltimore is a small seaport in the barony of Carbery, in
South Munster. It grew up around a castle of O'Driscoll's,
and was, after his ruin, colonized by the English. On the
20th of June, 1631, the crews of two Algerine galleys landed
in the dead of the night, sacked the town, and bore off into
slavery all who were not too old, or too young, or too
fierce, for their purpose. The pirates were steered up the
intricate channel by one Hackett, a Dungarvan fisherman,
whom they had taken at sea for the purpose. Two years later,
he was convicted of the crime and executed. Baltimore never
recovered from this.]

The summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's hundred isles,
The summer sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles,--
Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird;
And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard:
The hookers lie upon the beach; the children cease their play;
The gossips leave the little inn; the households kneel to pray;
And full of love and peace and rest,--its daily labor o'er,--
Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore.

A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there;
No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth or sea or air.
The massive capes and ruined towers seem conscious of the calm;
The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm.
So still the night, these two long barks round Dunashad that glide
Must trust their oars--methinks not few--against the ebbing tide.
O, some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore,--
They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore!

All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street,
And these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet.
A stifled gasp! a dreamy noise! The roof is in a flame!
From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid and sire and dame,
And meet upon the threshold stone, the gleaming sabre's fall,
And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawl.
The yell of "Allah!" breaks above the prayer and shriek and roar--
O blessèd God! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore!
Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing sword;
Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gored;
Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand-babes clutching wild;
Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with the child.
But see, yon pirate strangling lies, and crushed with splashing heel,
While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steel;
Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store,
There 's one hearth well avenged in the sack of Baltimore!

Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds begin to sing;
They see not now the milking-maids, deserted is the spring!
Midsummer day, this gallant rides from the distant Bandon's town,
These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that skiff from Affadown.
They only found the smoking walls with neighbors' blood besprent,
And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly went,
Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Clear, and saw, five leagues before,
The pirate-galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore.

O, some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed,--
This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's jerreed.
O, some are for the arsenals by beauteous Dardanelles,
And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells.
The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey,
She 's safe,--she 's dead,--she stabbed him in the midst of his Serai;
And when to die a death of fire that noble maid they bore,
She only smiled,--O'Driscoll's child,--she thought of Baltimore.

'T is two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band,
And all around its trampled hearth a larger concourse stand,
Where high upon a gallows-tree a yelling wretch is seen,--
'T is Hackett of Dungarvan,--he who steered the Algerine!
He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing prayer,
For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there:
Some muttered of MacMorrogh, who had brought the Norman o'er,
Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore.

THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS.

THE ROSE AND THE GAUNTLET.

Low spake the knight to the peasant-girl:
"I tell thee sooth, I am belted earl;
Fly with me from this garden small
And thou shalt sit in my castle's hall;

"Thou shalt have pomp, and wealth, and pleasure,
Joys beyond thy fancy's measure;
Here with my sword and horse I stand,
To bear thee away to my distant land.

"Take, thou fairest! this full-blown rose,
A token of love that as ripely blows."
With his glove of steel he plucked the token,
But it fell from his gauntlet crushed and broken.

The maiden exclaimed, "Thou seest, sir knight,
Thy fingers of iron can only smite;
And, like the rose thou hast torn and scattered,
I in thy grasp should be wrecked and shattered."

She trembled and blushed, and her glances fell;
But she turned from the knight, and said, "Farewell!"
"Not so," he cried, "will I lose my prize;
I heed not thy words, but I read thine eyes."

He lifted her up in his grasp of steel,
And he mounted and spurred with furious heel;
But her cry drew forth her hoary sire,
Who snatched his bow from above the fire.

Swift from the valley the warrior fled,
Swifter the bolt of the crossbow sped;
And the weight that pressed on the fleet-foot horse
Was the living man, and the woman's corse.

That morning the rose was bright of hue;
That morning the maiden was fair to view;
But the evening sun its beauty shed
On the withered leaves, and the maiden dead.

JOHN STERLING.

THE YOUNG GRAY HEAD.

Grief hath been known to turn the young head gray,--
To silver over in a single day
The bright locks of the beautiful, their prime
Scarcely o'erpast; as in the fearful time
Of Gallia's madness, that discrownèd head
Serene, that on the accursèd altar bled
Miscalled of Liberty. O martyred Queen!
What must the sufferings of that night have been--
_That one_--that sprinkled thy fair tresses o'er
With time's untimely snow! But now no more,
Lovely, august, unhappy one! of thee--
I have to tell a humbler history;
A village tale, whose only charm, in sooth
(If any), will be sad and simple truth.

"Mother," quoth Ambrose to his thrifty dame,--
So oft our peasant's use his wife to name,
"Father" and "Master" to himself applied,
As life's grave duties matronize the bride,--
"Mother," quoth Ambrose, as he faced the north
With hard-set teeth, before he issued forth
To his day labor, from the cottage door,--
"I'm thinking that, to-night, if not before,
There 'll be wild work. Dost hear old Chewton[1] roar?
It's brewing up, down westward; and look there,
One of those sea-gulls! ay, there goes a pair;
And such a sudden thaw! If rain comes on,
As threats, the waters will be out anon.
That path by the ford 's a nasty bit of way,--
Best let the young ones bide from school to-day."

"Do, mother, do!" the quick-eared urchins cried;
Two little lasses to the father's side
Close clinging, as they looked from him, to spy
The answering language of the mother's eye.
_There_ was denial, and she shook her head:
"Nay, nay,--no harm will come to them," she said,
"The mistress lets them off these short dark days
An hour the earlier; and our Liz, she says,
May quite be trusted--and I know 't is true--
To take care of herself and Jenny too.
And so she ought,--she's seven come first of May,--
Two years the oldest; and they give away
The Christmas bounty at the school to-day."

The mother's will was law (alas, for her
That hapless day, poor soul!)--_she_ could not err,
Thought Ambrose; and his little fair-haired Jane
(Her namesake) to his heart he hugged again.
When each had had her turn; she clinging so
As if that day she could not let him go.
But Labor's sons must snatch a hasty bliss
In nature's tenderest mood. One last fond kiss,
"God bless my little maids!" the father said,
And cheerily went his way to win their bread.
Then might be seen, the playmate parent gone,
What looks demure the sister pair put on,--
Not of the mother as afraid, or shy,
Or questioning the love that could deny;
But simply, as their simple training taught,
In quiet, plain straightforwardness of thought
(Submissively resigned the hope of play)
Towards the serious business of the day.

To me there 's something touching, I confess,
In the grave look of early thoughtfulness,
Seen often in some little childish face
Among the poor. Not that wherein we trace
(Shame to our land, our rulers, and our race!)
The unnatural sufferings of the factory child.
But a staid quietness, reflective, mild,
Betokening, in the depths of those young eyes,
Sense of life's cares, without its miseries.
So to the mother's charge, with thoughtful brow,
The docile Lizzy stood attentive now.
Proud of her years and of the imputed sense,
And prudence justifying confidence,--
And little Jenny, more demurely still,
Beside her waited the maternal will.
So standing hand in hand, a lovelier twain
Gainsborough ne'er painted: no--nor he of Spain,
Glorious Murillo!--and by contrast shown
More beautiful. The younger little one,
With large blue eyes and silken ringlets fair,
By nut-brown Lizzy, with smooth parted hair,
Sable and glossy as the raven's wing,
And lustrous eyes as dark.
"Now, mind and bring
Jenny safe home," the mother said,--"don't stay
To pull a bough or berry by the way:
And when you come to cross the ford, hold fast
Your little sister's hand, till you 're quite past,--
That plank's so crazy, and so slippery
(If not o'erflowed) the stepping-stones will be.
But you're good children--steady as old folk--
I'd trust ye anywhere." Then Lizzy's cloak,
A good gray duffle, lovingly she tied,
And ample little Jenny's lack supplied
With her own warmest shawl. "Be sure," said she,
"To wrap it round and knot it carefully
(Like this), when you come home, just leaving free
One hand to hold by. Now, make haste away--
Good will to school, and then good right to play."

Was there no sinking at the mother's heart
When, all equipt, they turned them to depart?
When down the lane she watched them as they went
Till out of sight, was no forefeeling sent
Of coming ill? In truth I cannot tell:
Such warnings _have been_ sent, we know full well
And must believe--believing that they are--
In mercy then--to rouse, restrain, prepare.

And now I mind me, something of the kind
Did surely haunt that day the mother's mind,
Making it irksome to bide all alone
By her own quiet hearth. Though never known
For idle gossipry was Jenny Gray,
Yet so it was, that morn she could not stay
At home with her own thoughts, but took her way
To her next neighbor's, half a loaf to borrow,--
Yet might her store have lasted out the morrow,--
And with the loan obtained, she lingered still.
Said she, "My master, if he 'd had his will,
Would have kept back our little ones from school
This dreadful morning; and I'm such a fool,
Since they 've been gone, I 've wished them back.
But then
It won't do in such things to humor men,--
Our Ambrose specially. If let alone
He 'd spoil those wenches. But it 's coming on,
That storm he said was brewing, sure enough,--
Well! what of that? To think what idle stuff
Will come into one's head! And here with you
I stop, as if I 'd nothing else to do--
And they 'll come home, drowned rats. I must be gone
To get dry things, and set the kettle on."

His day's work done, three mortal miles and more,
Lay between Ambrose and his cottage-door.
A weary way, God wot, for weary wight!
But yet far off the curling smoke in sight
From his own chimney, and his heart felt light.
How pleasantly the humble homestead stood,
Down the green lane, by sheltering Shirley wood!
How sweet the wafting of the evening breeze,
In spring-time, from his two old cherry-trees,
Sheeted with blossom! And in hot July,
From the brown moor-track, shadowless and dry,
How grateful the cool covert to regain
Of his own avenue,--that shady lane,
With the white cottage, in the slanting glow
Of sunset glory, gleaming bright below,
And Jasmine porch, his rustic portico!

With what a thankful gladness in his face,
(Silent heart-homage,--plant of special grace!)
At the lane's entrance, slackening oft his pace,
Would Ambrose send a loving look before,
Conceiting the caged blackbird at the door;
The very blackbird strained its little throat,
In welcome, with a more rejoicing note;
And honest Tinker, dog of doubtful breed,
All bristle, back, and tail, but "good at need,"
Pleasant his greeting to the accustomed ear;
But of all welcomes pleasantest, most dear,
The ringing voices, like sweet silver bells,
Of his two little ones. How fondly swells
The father's heart, as, dancing up the lane,
Each clasps a hand in her small hand again,
And each must tell her tale and "say her say,"
Impeding as she leads with sweet delay
(Childhood's blest thoughtlessness!) his onward way.
And when the winter day closed in so fast;
Scarce for his task would dreary daylight last;
And in all weathers--driving sleet and snow--
Home by that bare, bleak moor-track must he go,
Darkling and lonely. O, the blessèd sight
(His polestar) of that little twinkling light
From one small window, through the leafless trees,--
Glimmering so fitfully; no eye but his
Had spied it so far off. And sure was he,
Entering the lane, a steadier beam to see,
Ruddy and broad as peat-fed hearth could pour,
Streaming to meet him from the open door.
Then, though the blackbird's welcome was unheard,--
Silenced by winter,--note of summer bird
Still hailed him from no mortal fowl alive,
But from the cuckoo clock just striking five.
And Tinker's ear and Tinker's nose were keen,--
Off started he, and then a form was seen
Darkening the doorway: and a smaller sprite,
And then another, peered into the night,
Ready to follow free on Tinker's track,
But for the mother's hand that held her back:
And yet a moment--a few steps--and there,
Pulled o'er the threshold by that eager pair,
He sits by his own hearth, in his own chair;
Tinker takes post beside with eyes that say,
"Master, we've done our business for the day."
The kettle sings, the cat in chorus purrs,
The busy housewife with her tea-things stirs;
The door's made fast, the old stuff curtain drawn;
How the hail clatters! Let it clatter on!
How the wind raves and rattles! What cares he?
Safe housed and warm beneath his own roof-tree,
With a wee lassie prattling on each knee.

Such was the hour--hour sacred and apart--
Warmed in expectancy the poor man's heart.
Summer and winter, as his toil he plied,
To him and his the literal doom applied,
Pronounced on Adam. But the bread was sweet
So earned, for such dear mouths. The weary feet,
Hope-shod, stept lightly on the homeward way;
So specially it fared with Ambrose Gray
That time I tell of. He had worked all day
At a great clearing; vigorous stroke on stroke
Striking, till, when he stopt, his back seemed broke,
And the strong arms dropt nerveless. What of that?
There was a treasure hidden in his hat,--
A plaything for the young ones. He had found
A dormouse nest; the living ball coiled round
For its long winter sleep; and all his thought,
As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of naught
But the glad wonderment in Jenny's eyes,
And graver Lizzy's quieter surprise,
When he should yield, by guess and kiss and prayer
Hard won, the frozen captive to their care.

'T was a wild evening,--wild and rough. "I knew,"
Thought Ambrose, "those unlucky gulls spoke true,--
And Gaffer Chewton never growls for naught,--
I should be mortal 'mazed now if I thought
My little maids were not safe housed before
That blinding hail-storm,--ay, this hour and more,--
Unless by that old crazy bit of board,
They 've not passed dry-foot over Shallow ford,
That I 'll be bound for,--swollen as it must be--
Well! if my mistress had been ruled by me--"
But, checking the half-thought as heresy,
He looked out for the Home Star. There it shone,
And with a gladdened heart he hastened on.

He 's in the lane again,--and there below,
Streams from the open doorway that red glow,
Which warms him but to look at. For his prize
Cautious he feels,--all safe and snug it lies,--
"Down, Tinker! down, old boy!--not quite so free,--
The thing thou sniffest is no game for thee.--
But what 's the meaning? no lookout to-night!
No living soul astir! Pray God, all 's right!
Who 's flittering round the peat-stack in such weather?
Mother!" you might have felled him with a feather,
When the short answer to his loud "Hillo!"
And hurried question, "Are they come?" was "No."

To throw his tools down, hastily unhook
The old cracked lantern from its dusty nook,
And, while he lit it, speak a cheering word,
That almost choked him, and was scarcely heard,
Was but a moment's act, and he was gone
To where a fearful foresight led him on.
Passing a neighbor's cottage in his way,--
Mark Fenton's,--him he took with short delay
To bear him company,--for who could say
What need might be? They struck into the track
The children should have taken coming back
From school that day; and many a call and shout
Into the pitchy darkness they sent out,
And, by the lantern light, peered all about,
In every roadside thicket, hole, nook,
Till suddenly--as nearing now the brook--
Something brushed past them. That was Tinker's bark,--
Unheeded, he had followed in the dark,
Close at his master's heels; but, swift as light,
Darted before them now. "Be sure he 's right,--
He 's on the track," cried Ambrose. "Hold the light
Low down,--he 's making for the water. Hark!
I know that whine,--the old dog 's found them, Mark."
So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on
Toward the old crazy foot-bridge. It was gone!
And all his dull contracted light could show
Was the black void and dark swollen stream below.
"Yet there 's life somewhere,--more than Tinker's whine,--
That 's sure," said Mark. "So, let the lantern shine
Down yonder. There's the dog,--and, hark!" "O dear!"
And a low sob came faintly on the ear,
Mocked by the sobbing gust. Down, quick as thought,
Into the stream leapt Ambrose, where he caught
Fast hold of something,--a dark huddled heap,--
Half in the water, where 't was scarce knee-deep
For a tall man, and half above it, propped
By some old ragged side-piles, that had stopt
Endways the broken plank, when it gave way
With the two little ones that luckless day!
"My babes!--my lambkins!" was the father's cry.
_One little voice_ made answer, "Here am I!"
'T was Lizzy's. There she crouched with face as white,
More ghastly by the flickering lantern-light
Than sheeted corpse. The pale blue lips drawn tight,
Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth,
And eyes on some dark object underneath,
Washed by the turbid water, fixed as stone,--
One arm and hand stretched out, and rigid grown,
Grasping, as in the death-gripe, Jenny's frock.
There she lay drowned. Could he sustain that shock,
The doting father? Where 's the unriven rock
Can bide such blasting in its flintiest part
As that soft sentient thing,--the human heart?

They lifted her from out her watery bed,--
Its covering gone, the lovely little head
Hung like a broken snowdrop all aside;
And one small hand,--the mother's shawl was tied,
Leaving _that_ free, about the child's small form,
As was her last injunction--"_fast_ and warm"--
Too well obeyed,--too fast! A fatal hold
Affording to the scrag by a thick fold
That caught and pinned her in the river's bed,
While through the reckless water overhead
Her life-breath bubbled up.
"She might have lived,
Struggling like Lizzy," was the thought that rived
The wretched mother's heart, when she knew all,
"But for my foolishness about that shawl!
And Master would have kept them back the day;
But I was wilful,--driving them away
In such wild weather!"
Thus the tortured heart
Unnaturally against itself takes part,
Driving the sharp edge deeper of a woe
Too deep already. They had raised her now,
And parting the wet ringlets from her brow,
To that, and the cold cheek, and lips as cold,
The father glued his warm ones, ere they rolled
Once more the fatal shawl--her winding-sheet--
About the precious clay. One heart still beat,
Warmed by his heart's blood. To his only child
He turned him, but her piteous moaning mild
Pierced him afresh,--and now she knew him not.
"Mother!" she murmured, "who says I forgot?
Mother! indeed, indeed, I kept fast hold,
And tied the shawl quite close--she can't be cold--
But she won't move--we slipt--I don't know how--
But I held on--and I'm so weary now--
And it's so dark and cold! O dear! O dear!--
And she won't move;--if daddy was but here!"

* * * * *

Poor lamb! she wandered in her mind, 't was clear;
But soon the piteous murmur died away,
And quiet in her father's arms she lay,--
They their dead burden had resigned, to take
The living, so near lost. For her dear sake,
And one at home, he armed himself to bear
His misery like a man,--with tender care
Doffing his coat her shivering form to fold
(His neighbor bearing that which felt no cold),
He clasped her close, and so, with little said,
Homeward they bore the living and the dead.

From Ambrose Gray's poor cottage all that night
Shone fitfully a little shifting light,
Above, below,--for all were watchers there,
Save one sound sleeper. Her, parental care,
Parental watchfulness, availed not now.
But in the young survivor's throbbing brow,
And wandering eyes, delirious fever burned;
And all night long from side to side she turned,
Piteously plaining like a wounded dove,
With now and then the murmur, "She won't move."
And lo! when morning, as in mockery, bright
Shone on that pillow, passing strange the sight,--
That young head's raven hair was streaked with white!
No idle fiction this. Such things have been,
We know. And now _I tell what I have seen_.

Life struggled long with death in that small frame,
But it was strong, and conquered. All became
As it had been with the poor family,--
All, saving that which nevermore might be:
There was an empty place,--they were but three.

CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY.

[1] A fresh-water spring rushing into the sea, called Chewton Bunny.

[Illustration: THE FATAL COAST-TIDE.
"The old sea-wall (he cryed) is downe!
The rising tide comes on apace."
--JEAN INGELOW.
_From a photogravure by Braun, Clement & Co., after painting
by G. Haquette._]

HIGH-TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. [TIME, 1571.]

THE old mayor climbed the belfry tower,
The ringers rang by two, by three;
"Pull! if ye never pulled before;
Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he.
"Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells!
Ply all your changes, all your swells!
Play uppe _The Brides of Enderby_!"

Men say it was a "stolen tyde,"--
The Lord that sent it, he knows all,
But in myne ears doth still abide
The message that the bells let fall;
And there was naught of strange, beside
The flights of mews and peewits pied,
By millions crouched on the old sea-wall.

I sat and spun within the doore;
My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes:
The level sun, like ruddy ore,
Lay sinking in the barren skies;
And dark against day's golden death
She moved where Lindis wandereth,--
My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.

"Cusha! Cusha!

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