Part 3

How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favors fall! For them I battle till the end, To save from shame and thrall: But all my heart is drawn above, My knees are bowed in crypt and shrine: I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden’s hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair through faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will.

When down the stormy crescent goes, A light before me swims, Between dark stems the forest glows, I hear a noise of hymns: Then by some secret shrine I ride; I hear a voice, but none are there; The stalls are void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair. Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chants resound between.

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I find a magic bark; I leap on board: no helmsman steers: I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the holy Grail: With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail. Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! My spirit beats her mortal bars, As down dark tides the glory slides, And star-like mingles with the stars.

When on my goodly charger borne Through dreaming towns I go, The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The streets are dumb with snow. The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; But o’er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height; No branchy thicket shelter yields; But blessed forms in whistling storms Fly o’er waste fens and windy fields.

A maiden knight, to me is given Such hope, I know not fear; I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven That often meet me here. I muse on joy that will not cease, Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odors haunt my dreams; And, stricken by an angel’s hand, This mortal armor that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touched, are turned to finest air.

The clouds are broken in the sky, And through the mountain-walls A rolling organ-harmony Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod, Wings flutter, voices hover clear: “O just and faithful knight of God, Ride on! the prize is near.” So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All armed I ride, whate’er betide, Until I find the holy Grail.

KING CANUTE AND HIS NOBLES.

Canute was by his nobles taught to fancy That, by a kind of royal necromancy, He had the power old Ocean to control. Down rushed the royal Dane upon the strand, And issued, like a Solomon, command,--poor soul!

“Go back, ye waves, you blustering rogues,” quoth he; “Touch not your lord and master, Sea; For by my power almighty, if you do--” Then, staring vengeance, out he held a stick, Vowing to drive old Ocean to Old Nick, Should he even wet the latchet of his shoe.

The sea retired,--the monarch fierce rushed on, And looked as if he’d drive him from the land; But Sea, not caring to be put upon, Made for a moment a bold stand.

Not only made a stand did Mr. Ocean, But to his waves he made a motion, And bid them give the king a hearty trimming. The order seemed a deal the waves to tickle, For soon they put his Majesty in pickle, And set his royalties, like geese, a swimming.

All hands aloft, with one tremendous roar, Sound did they make him wish himself on shore; His head and ears they most handsomely doused,-- Just like a porpoise, with one general shout, The waves so tumbled the poor king about. No anabaptist e’er was half so soused.

At length to land he crawled, a half-drowned thing, Indeed, more like a crab than like a king, And found his courtiers making rueful faces; But what said Canute to the lords and gentry, Who hailed him from the water, on his entry, All trembling for their lives or places?

“My lords and gentlemen, by your advice, I’ve had with Mr. Sea a pretty bustle; My treatment from my foe, not overnice, Just made a jest for every shrimp and mussel.

“A pretty trick for one of my dominion! My lords, I thank you for your great opinion. You’ll tell me, p’r’aps, I’ve only lost one game And bid me try another,--for the rubber. Permit me to inform you all, with shame, That you’re a set of knaves and I’m a lubber.”

OUTWARD BOUND.

Clink--clink--clink! goes our windlass. “Ahoy!” “Haul in!” “Let go!” Yards braced and sails set, Flags uncurl and flow. Some eyes that watch from shore are wet, (How bright their welcome shone!) While, bending softly to the breeze, And rushing through the parted seas, Our gallant ship glides on. Though one has left a sweetheart, And one has left a wife, ’Twill never do to mope and fret, Or curse a sailor’s life. See, far away they signal yet,-- They dwindle--fade--they’re gone: For, dashing outwards, bold and brave, And springing light from wave to wave, Our merry ship flies on. Gay spreads the sparkling ocean; But many a gloomy night And stormy morrow must be met Ere next we heave in sight. The parting look we’ll ne’er forget, The kiss, the benison, As round the rolling world we go. God bless you all! Blow, breezes blow! Sail on, good ship, sail on!

THE BRIDES OF VENICE.

It was St. Mary’s eve; and all poured forth, As to some grand solemnity. The fisher Came from his islet, bringing o’er the waves His wife and little one; the husbandman From the Firm Land, along the Po, the Brenta, Crowding the common ferry. All arrived; And in his straw the prisoner turned and listened, So great the stir in Venice. Old and young Thronged her three hundred bridges; the grave Turk, Turbaned, long-vested, and the cozening Jew, In yellow hat and threadbare gabardine, Hurrying along. For, as the custom was, The noblest sons and daughters of the state, They of patrician birth, the flower of Venice, Whose names are written in the “Book of Gold,” Were on that day to solemnize their nuptials. At noon, a distant murmur through the crowd, Rising and rolling on, announced their coming; And never from the first was to be seen Such splendor or such beauty. Two and two (The richest tapestry unrolled before them), First came the brides in all their loveliness; Each in her veil, and by two bridemaids followed. Only less lovely, who behind her bore The precious caskets that within contained The dowry and the presents. On she moved, Her eyes cast down, and holding in her hand A fan, that gently waved, of ostrich feathers. Her veil, transparent as the gossamer, Fell from beneath a starry diadem; And on her dazzling neck a jewel shone, Ruby or diamond or dark amethyst; A jewelled chain, in many a winding wreath, Wreathing her gold brocade.

Before the church, That venerable pile on the sea-brink, Another train they met,--no strangers to them,-- Brothers to some, and to the rest still dearer, Each in his hand bearing his cap and plume, And, as he walked, with modest dignity Folding his scarlet mantle, his _tabarro._ They join, they enter in, and up the aisle Led by the full-voiced choir, in bright procession, Range round the altar. In his vestments there The patriarch stands; and while the anthem flows, Who can look on unmoved? Mothers in secret Rejoicing in the beauty of their daughters; Sons in the thought of making them their own; And they, arrayed in youth and innocence, Their beauty heightened by their hopes and fears. At length the rite is ending. All fall down In earnest prayer, all of all ranks together; And stretching out his hands, the holy man Proceeds to give the general benediction, When hark! a din of voices from without, And shrieks and groans and outcries, as in battle; And lo! the door is burst, the curtain rent, And armed ruffians, robbers from the deep, Savage, uncouth, led on by Barbarigo And his six brothers in their coats of steel, Are standing on the threshold! Statue-like, Awhile they gaze on the fallen multitude, Each with his sabre up, in act to strike; Then, as at once recovering from the spell, Rush forward to the altar, and as soon Are gone again, amid no clash of arms, Bearing away the maidens and the treasures. Where are they now? Ploughing the distant waves, Their sails all set, and they upon the deck Standing triumphant. To the east they go, Steering for Istria, their accursed barks (Well are they known, the galliot and the galley) Freighted with all that gives to life its value The richest argosies were poor to them! Now might you see the matrons running wild Along the beach; the men half armed and arming; One with a shield, one with a casque and spear; One with an axe, hewing the mooring-chain Of some old pinnace. Not a raft, a plank, But on that day was drifting. In an hour Half Venice was afloat. But long before,-- Frantic with grief, and scorning all control,-- The youths were gone in a light brigantine, Lying at anchor near the arsenal; Each having sworn, and by the holy rood, To slay or to be slain. And from the tower The watchman gives the signal. In the east A ship is seen, and making for the port; Her flag St. Mark’s. And now she turns the point, Over the waters like a sea-bird flying. Ha! ’tis the same, ’tis theirs! From stern to prow Hung with green boughs, she comes, she comes, restoring All that was lost! Coasting, with narrow search. Friuli, like a tiger in his spring, They had surprised the corsairs where they lay, Sharing the spoil in blind security, And casting lots; had slain them one and all,-- All to the last,--and flung them far and wide Into the sea, their proper element. Him first, as first in rank, whose name so long Had hushed the babes of Venice, and who yet Breathing a little, in his look retained The fierceness of his soul.

Thus were the brides Lost and recovered. And what now remained But to give thanks? Twelve breastplates and twelve crowns, Flaming with gems and gold, the votive offerings Of the young victors to their patron saint, Vowed on the field of battle, were erelong Laid at his feet; and to preserve forever The memory of a day so full of change, From joy to grief, from grief to joy again, Through many an age, as oft as it came round, ’Twas held religiously with all observance. The Doge resigned his crimson for pure ermine; And through the city in a stately barge Of gold were borne, with songs and symphonies, Twelve ladies young and noble. Clad they were In bridal white with bridal ornaments, Each in her glittering veil; and on the deck As on a burnished throne, they glided by. No window or balcony but adorned With hangings of rich texture; not a roof But covered with beholders, and the air Vocal with joy. Onward they went, their oars Moving in concert with the harmony, Through the Rialto to the ducal palace; And at a banquet there, served with due honor, Sat, representing in the eyes of all-- Eyes not unwet, I ween, with grateful tears-- Their lovely ancestors, the “Brides of Venice.”

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed;

And the heavy night hung dark The hills and water o’er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame;

Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear; They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard, and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free!

The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the white wave’s foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roared,-- This was their welcome home.

There were men with hoary hair Amidst that pilgrim band: Why had they come to wither there, Away from their childhood’s land?

There was woman’s fearless eye, Lit by her deep love’s truth; There was manhood’s brow, serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine, The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? They sought a faith’s pure shrine!

Aye, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod; They have left unstained what there they found,-- Freedom to worship God.

THE DAYS OF CHIVALRY.

Alas! The days of chivalry are fled, The brilliant tournament exists no more; Our loves are cold, and dull as ice or lead, And courting is a most enormous bore.

In those good “olden times,” a “ladye bright” Might sit within her turret or her bower, While lovers sang and played without all night, And deemed themselves rewarded by a flower.

Yet if one favored swain would persevere, In despite of her haughty scorn and laugh, Perchance she threw him, with the closing year, An old odd glove, or else a worn-out scarf.

Off then, away he’d ride o’er sea and land, And dragons fell and mighty giants smite With the tough spear he carried in his hand; And all to prove himself her own true knight.

Meanwhile a thousand more, as wild as he, Were all employed upon the self-same thing; And when each had rode hard for his “ladye,” They all come back and met within a ring.

Where all the men who were entitled “syr” Appeared with martial air and haughty frown, Bearing “long poles, each other up to stir,” And, in the stir-up, thrust each other down.

And then they galloped round with dire intent, Each knight resolved another’s pride to humble; And laughter rang around the tournament As oft as any of them had a tumble.

And when, perchance, some ill-starred wight might die, The victim of a stout, unlucky poke, Mayhap some fair one wiped one beauteous eye, The rest smiled calmly on the deadly joke.

Soon, then, the lady, whose grim, stalwart swain Had got the strongest horse and toughest pole, Bedecked him, kneeling, with a golden chain, And plighted troth before the motley whole.

Alas! the days of chivalry are fled, The brilliant tournament exists no more. Men now are cold and dull as ice or lead, And even courtship is a dreadful bore.

THE SONG OF THE CAMP.

“Give us a song!” the soldiers cried, The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff, Lay grim and threatening under; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff No longer belched its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said, “We storm the forts to-morrow; Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow.”

They lay along the battery’s side, Below the smoking cannon, Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde, And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame; Forgot was Britain’s glory: Each heart recalled a different name, But all sang “Annie Lawrie.”

Voice after voice caught up the song, Until its tender passion Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,-- Their battle-eve confession.

Beyond the darkening ocean burned The bloody sunset’s embers, While the Crimean valleys learned How English love remembers.

And once again a fire of hell Rained on the Russian quarters, With scream of shot and burst of shell And bellowing of the mortars!

And Irish Nora’s eyes are dim For a singer dumb and gory; And English Mary mourns for him Who sang of “Annie Lawrie.”

Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest Your truth and valor wearing. The bravest are the tenderest, The loving are the daring.

THE RECANTATION OF GALILEO.

Far ’neath the glorious light of the noontide, In a damp dungeon a prisoner lay, Aged and feeble, his failing years numbered, Waiting the fate to be brought him that day.

Silence, oppressive with darkness, held durance; Death in the living, or living in death; Crouched on the granite, and burdened with fetters, Inhaling slow poison with each labored breath.

O’er the damp floor of his dungeon there glistened Faintly the rays of a swift-nearing light; Then the sweet jingle of keys, that soon opened The door, and revealed a strange scene to his sight.

In the red glare of the flickering torches, Held by the gray-gowned soldiers of God, Gathered a group that the world will remember Long ages after we sleep ’neath the sod.

Draped in their robes of bright scarlet and purple, Bearing aloft the gold emblems of Rome, Stood the chief priests of the papal dominion, Under the shadow of Peter’s proud dome,

By the infallible pontiff commanded, From his own lips their directions received; Sent to demand of the wise Galileo Denial of all the great truths he believed,--

Before the whole world to give up his convictions, Because the great church said the world had not moved; Then to swear, before God, that his science was idle, And truth was unknown to the facts he had proved.

So, loosing his shackles, they bade the sage listen To words from the mouth of the vicar of God: “Recant thy vile doctrines, and life we will give thee: Adhere, and thy road to the grave is soon trod!”

His doctrines--the truth, as proud Rome has acknowledged-- On low, bended knee, in that vault he renounced; Yet with joy in their eyes, the high-priests retiring, “Confinement for life,” as his sentence pronounced.

But as they left him, their malice rekindled Fires that their threats had subdued in his breast: Clanking his chains, with fierce ardor he muttered, “But it _does_ move, and tyrants can ne’er make it rest.”

BELSHAZZAR.

The midnight hour was drawing on; Flushed in repose lay Babylon; But in the palace of the king The herd of courtiers shout and sing. There, in his royal banquet hall, Belshazzar holds high festival.

The servants sit in glittering rows, The beakers are drained, the red wine flows; The beakers clash and the servants sing,-- A pleasing sound to the moody king. The king’s cheeks flush and his wild eyes shine, His spirit waxes bold with wine, Until, by maddening passion stung, He scoffs at God with impious tongue; And his proud heart swells as he wildly raves, ’Mid shouts of applause from his fawning slaves. He spoke the word, and his eyes flashed flame! The ready servants went and came; Vessels of massive gold they bore, Of Jehovah’s temple the plundered store.

Then seizing a consecrated cup, The king in his fury fills it up; He fills, and hastily drains it dry; From his foaming lips leaps forth the cry, “Jehovah, at Thee my scorn I fling! I am Belshazzar, Babylon’s king.” Yet scarce had the impious words been said, When the king’s heart shrank with secret dread; Suddenly died the shout and yell, A deathlike hush on the tumult fell.

And see! and see! on the white wall high The form of a hand went slowly by, And wrote--and wrote in sight of all Letters of fire upon the wall! The king sat still, with a stony look, His trembling knees with terror shook; The menial throng nor spoke nor stirred; Fear froze the blood,--no sound was heard.

The magicians came, but none of all Could read the writing on the wall. At length to solve those words of flame, Fearless, but meek, the prophet came. One glance he gave, and all was clear. “King! there is reason in thy fear. Those words proclaim, thy empire ends, The day of woe and wrath impends. Weighed in the balance, wanting found, Thou and thy empire strike the ground!”

That night, by the servants of his train, Belshazzar, the mighty king, was slain!

LIBERTY.

With what pride I used To walk these hills, and look up to my God, And bless him that it was so! I loved Its very storms. I have sat In my boat at night when, midway o’er the lake, The stars went out, and down the mountain gorge The wind came roaring. I have sat and eyed The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled To see him shake his lightnings o’er my head, And think I had no master save his own. You know the jutting cliff round which a track Up hither winds, whose base is but the brow To such another one, with scanty room For two abreast to pass? O’ertaken there By the mountain blast, I’ve laid me flat along, And while gust followed gust more furiously, As if to sweep me o’er the horrid brink, And I have thought of other lands, whose storms Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just Have wished me there--the thought that mine was free Has checked that wish; and I have raised my head, And cried in thraldrom to that furious wind, Blow on! This is the land of liberty!

THE FISHERMEN.

Hurrah! the seaward breezes Sweep down the bay amain. Heave up, my lads, the anchor! Run up the sail again! Leave to the lubber landsmen The rail-car and the steed; The stars of heaven shall guide us, The breath of heaven shall speed.

From the hill-top looks the steeple, And the lighthouse from the sand; And the scattered pines are waving Their farewell from the land. One glance, my lads, behind us, For the homes we leave one sigh, Ere we take the change and chances Of the ocean and the sky.

Now, brothers, for the icebergs Of frozen Labrador, Floating spectral in the moonshine, Along the low, black shore! Where like snow the gannet’s feathers On Brador’s rocks are shed, And the noisy murr are flying, Like black scuds, overhead;

Where in mist the rock is hiding, And the sharp reef lurks below, And the white squall smites in summer, And the autumn tempests blow; Where, through gray and rolling vapor, From evening unto morn, A thousand boats are hailing, Horn answering unto horn.