Part 15
"Think then, will it bring honor to thy head If folk say, 'Everything aside he cast And to all fame and honor was he dead, And to his one hope now is dead at last, 410 Since all unholpen he is gone and past: Ah, the gods love not man, for certainly, He to his helper did not cease to cry."
"Nay, but thou wilt help; they who died before Not single-hearted as I deem came here, 415 Therefore unthanked they laid their gifts before Thy stainless feet, still shivering with their fear, Lest in their eyes their true thought might appear, Who sought to be the lords of that fair town, Dreaded of men and winners of renown. 420
"O Queen, thou knowest I pray not for this: O, set us down together in some place Where not a voice can break our heaven of bliss, Where naught but rocks and I can see her face, Softening beneath the marvel of thy grace, 425 Where not a foot our vanished steps can track,-- The golden age, the golden age come back!
"O fairest, hear me now, who do thy will, Plead for thy rebel that she be not slain, But live and love and be thy servant still: 430 Ah, give her joy and take away my pain, And thus two long-enduring servants gain. An easy thing this is to do for me, What need of my vain words to weary thee!
"But none the less this place will I not leave 435 Until I needs must go my death to meet, Or at thy hands some happy sign receive That in great joy we twain may one day greet Thy presence here and kiss thy silver feet, Such as we deem thee, fair beyond all words, 440 Victorious o'er our servants and our lords."
Then from the altar back a space he drew, But from the Queen turned not his face away, But 'gainst a pillar leaned, until the blue That arched the sky, at ending of the day, 445 Was turned to ruddy gold and changing gray, And clear, but low, the nigh-ebbed windless sea In the still evening murmured ceaselessly.
And there he stood when all the sun was down, Nor had he moved, when the dim golden light, 450 Like the far lustre of a godlike town, Had left the world to seeming hopeless night, Nor would he move the more when wan moonlight Streamed through the pillars for a little while, And lighted up the white Queen's changeless smile. 455
Naught noted he the shallow flowing sea As step by step it set the wrack a-swim, The yellow torchlight nothing noted he Wherein with fluttering gown and half-bared limb The temple damsels sung their midnight hymn, 460 And naught the doubled stillness of the fane When they were gone and all was hushed again.
But when the waves had touched the marble base, And steps the fish swim over twice a day, The dawn beheld him sunken in his place 465 Upon the floor; and sleeping there he lay, Not heeding aught the little jets of spray The roughened sea brought nigh, across him cast, For as one dead all thought from him had passed.
Yet long before the sun had showed his head, 470 Long ere the varied hangings on the wall Had gained once more their blue and green and red, He rose as one some well-known sign doth call When war upon the city's gates doth fall, And scarce like one fresh risen out of sleep, 475 He 'gan again his broken watch to keep.
Then he turned round; not for the sea-gull's cry That wheeled above the temple in his flight, Not for the fresh south-wind that lovingly Breathed on the new-born day and dying night, 480 But some strange hope 'twixt fear and great delight Drew round his face, now flushed, now pale and wan, And still constrained his eyes the sea to scan.
Now a faint light lit up the southern sky, Not sun or moon, for all the world was gray, 485 But this a bright cloud seemed, that drew anigh, Lighting the dull waves that beneath it lay As toward the temple still it took its way, And still grew greater, till Milanion Saw naught for dazzling light that round him shone. 490
But as he staggered with his arms outspread, Delicious unnamed odors breathed around, For languid happiness he bowed his head, And with wet eyes sank down upon the ground, Nor wished for aught, nor any dream he found 495 To give him reason for that happiness, Or make him ask more knowledge of his bliss.
At last his eyes were cleared, and he could see Through happy tears the goddess face to face With that faint image of Divinity, 500 Whose well-wrought smile and dainty changeless grace Until that morn so gladdened all the place; Then he unwitting cried aloud her name, And covered up his eyes for fear and shame.
But through the stillness he her voice could hear 505 Piercing his heart with joy scarce bearable, That said, "Milanion, wherefore dost thou fear? I am not hard to those who love me well; List to what I a second time will tell, And thou mayest hear perchance, and live to save 510 The cruel maiden from a loveless grave.
"See, by my feet three golden apples lie-- Such fruit among the heavy roses falls, Such fruit my watchful damsels carefully Store up within the best loved of my walls, 515 Ancient Damascus,[305] where the lover calls Above my unseen head, and faint and light The rose-leaves flutter round me in the night.
"And note, that these are not alone most fair With heavenly gold, but longing strange they bring 520 Unto the hearts of men, who will not care, Beholding these, for any once-loved thing Till round the shining sides their fingers cling. And thou shalt see thy well-girt swiftfoot maid By sight of these amid her glory stayed. 525
"For bearing these within a scrip with thee, When first she heads thee from the starting-place Cast down the first one for her eyes to see, And when she turns aside make on apace, And if again she heads thee in the race 530 Spare not the other two to cast aside If she not long enough behind will bide.
"Farewell, and when has come the happy time That she Diana's raiment must unbind And all the world seems blessed with Saturn's[306] clime, 535 And thou with eager arms about her twined Beholdest first her gray eyes growing kind, Surely, O trembler, thou shalt scarcely then Forget the Helper of unhappy men."
Milanion raised his head at this last word, 540 For now so soft and kind she seemed to be No longer of her Godhead was he feared; Too late he looked, for nothing could he see But the white image glimmering doubtfully In the departing twilight cold and gray, 545 And those three apples on the steps that lay.
These then he caught up quivering with delight, Yet fearful lest it all might be a dream, And though aweary with the watchful night, And sleepless nights of longing, still did deem 550 He could not sleep; but yet the first sunbeam That smote the fane across the heaving deep Shone on him laid in calm untroubled sleep.
But little ere the noontide did he rise, And why he felt so happy scarce could tell 555 Until the gleaming apples met his eyes. Then, leaving the fair place where this befell, Oft he looked back as one who loved it well, Then homeward to the haunts of men 'gan wend To bring all things unto a happy end. 560
* * * * *
Now has the lingering month at last gone by, Again are all folk round the running-place, Nor other seems the dismal pageantry Than heretofore, but that another face Looks o'er the smooth course ready for the race, 565 For now, beheld of all, Milanion Stands on the spot he twice has looked upon.
But yet--what change is this that holds the maid? Does she indeed see in his glittering eye More than disdain of the sharp shearing blade, 570 Some happy hope of help and victory? The others seemed to say, "We come to die, Look down upon us for a little while, That, dead, we may bethink us of thy smile."
But he--what look of mastery was this 575 He cast on her? why were his lips so red? Why was his face so flushed with happiness? So looks not one who deems himself but dead, E'en if to death he bows a willing head; So rather looks a god well pleased to find 580 Some earthly damsel fashioned to his mind.
Why must she drop her lids before his gaze, And even as she casts adown her eyes Redden to note his eager glance of praise, And wish that she were clad in other guise? 585 Why must the memory to her heart arise Of things unnoticed when they first were heard, Some lover's song, some answering maiden's word?
What makes these longings, vague, without a name, And this vain pity never felt before, 590 This sudden languor, this contempt of fame, This tender sorrow for the time past o'er, These doubts that grow each minute more and more? Why does she tremble as the time grows near, And weak defeat and woful victory fear? 595
But while she seemed to hear her beating heart, Above their heads the trumpet blast rang out, And forth they sprang; and she must play her part; Then flew her white feet, knowing not a doubt, Though, slackening once, she turned her head about, 600 But then she cried aloud and faster fled Than e'er before, and all men deemed him dead.
But with no sound he raised aloft his hand, And thence what seemed a ray of light there flew And past the maid rolled on along the sand; 605 Then trembling she her feet together drew, And in her heart a strong desire there grew To have the toy; some god she thought had given That gift to her, to make of earth a heaven.
Then from the course with eager steps she ran, 610 And in her odorous bosom laid the gold. But when she turned again, the great-limbed man Now well ahead she failed not to behold, And, mindful of her glory waxing cold, Sprang up and followed him in hot pursuit, 615 Though with one hand she touched the golden fruit.
Note, too, the bow that she was wont to bear She laid aside to grasp the glittering prize, And o'er her shoulder from the quiver fair Three arrows fell and lay before her eyes 620 Unnoticed, as amidst the people's cries She sprang to head the strong Milanion, Who now the turning-post had well-nigh won.
But as he set his mighty hand on it White fingers underneath his own were laid, 625 And white limbs from his dazzled eyes did flit; Then he the second fruit cast by the maid, But she ran on awhile, then as afraid Wavered and stopped, and turned and made no stay, Until the globe with its bright fellow lay. 630
Then, as a troubled glance she cast around, Now far ahead the Argive could she see, And in her garment's hem one hand she wound To keep the double prize, and strenuously Sped o'er the course, and little doubt had she 635 To win the day, though now but scanty space Was left betwixt him and the winning-place.
Short was the way unto such winged feet, Quickly she gained upon him, till at last He turned about her eager eyes to meet 640 And from his hand the third fair apple cast. She wavered not, but turned and ran so fast After the prize that should her bliss fulfil, That in her hand it lay ere it was still.
Nor did she rest, but turned about to win, 645 Once more, an unblest woful victory-- And yet--and yet--why does her breath begin To fail her, and her feet drag heavily? Why fails she now to see if far or nigh The goal is? why do her gray eyes grow dim? 650 Why do these tremors run through every limb?
She spreads her arms abroad some stay to find, Else must she fall, indeed, and findeth this, A strong man's arms about her body twined. Nor may she shudder now to feel his kiss, 655 So wrapped she is in new unbroken bliss: Made happy that the foe the prize hath won, She weeps glad tears for all her glory done.
* * * * *
Shatter the trumpet, hew adown the posts! Upon the brazen altar break the sword, 660 And scatter incense to appease the ghosts Of those who died here by their own award. Bring forth the image of the mighty Lord, And her who unseen o'er the runners hung, And did a deed forever to be sung. 665
Here are the gathered folk, make no delay, Open King Schoeneus' well-filled treasury, Bring out the gifts long hid from light of day, The golden bowls o'erwrought with imagery, Gold chains, and unguents brought from over sea, 670 The saffron gown the old Phoenician[307] brought, Within the temple of the Goddess wrought.
O ye, O damsels, who shall never see Her, that Love's servant bringeth now to you, Returning from another victory, 675 In some cool bower do all that now is due! Since she in token of her service new Shall give to Venus offerings rich enow, Her maiden zone, her arrows, and her bow.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS
It was the schooner Hesperus, That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughtèr, To bear him company.
Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, 5 Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, That ope in the month of May.
The skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth, 10 And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now West, now South.
Then up and spake an old sailòr, Had sailed the Spanish Main, "I pray thee, put into yonder port, 15 For I fear a hurricane.
"Last night, the moon had a golden ring, And to-night no moon we see!" The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he. 20
Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the Northeast; The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast.
Down came the storm, and smote amain, 25 The vessel in its strength; She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, Then leaped her cable's length.
"Come hither! come hither! my little daughtèr, And do not tremble so; 30 For I can weather the roughest gale, That ever wind did blow."
He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat Against the stinging blast; He cut a rope from a broken spar, 35 And bound her to the mast.
"O father! I hear the church-bells ring, O say, what may it be?" "'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"-- And he steered for the open sea. 40
"O father! I hear the sound of guns, O say, what may it be?" "Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!"
"O father! I see a gleaming light, 45 O say, what may it be?" But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he.
Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face turned to the skies, 50 The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow On his fixed and glassy eyes.
Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That savèd she might be; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, On the Lake of Galilee. 56
And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. 60
And ever the fitful gusts between, A sound came from the land; It was the sound of the trampling surf, On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.
The breakers were right beneath her bows, 65 She drifted a dreary wreck, And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her deck.
She struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool, 70 But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull.
Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board; Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, 75 Ho! ho! the breakers roared!
At daybreak on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair, Lashed close to a drifting mast. 80
The salt-sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, On the billows fall and rise.
Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 85 In the midnight and the snow! Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman's Woe!
PAUL REVERE'S RIDE
Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,[308] On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year. 5
He said to his friend, "If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North Church[309] tower as a signal light,-- One, if by land, and two, if by sea; 10 And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country-folk to be up and arm."
Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar 15 Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war; A phantom ship, with each mast and spar 20 Across the moon like a prison bar And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile his friend, through alley and street, Wanders and watches with eager ears, 25 Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers, Marching down to their boats on the shore. 30
Then he climbed to the tower of the church, Up the wooden stairs with stealthy tread, To the belfry-chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made 35 Masses and moving shapes of shade,-- Up the trembling ladder, steep and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, 40 And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, In their night-encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, 45 The watchful night-wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread 50 Of the lonely belfry and the dead; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay,-- A line of black that bends and floats 55 On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side, 60 Now gazed at the landscape far and near, Then impetuous, stamped the earth, And turned and tightened his saddle-girth; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, 65 As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, 70 But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns!
A hurry of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark 75 Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet; That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 80
He has left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; And under the alders, that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, 85 Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock When he crossed the bridge into Medford[310] town. He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer's dog, 90 And felt the damp of the river fog, That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock, When he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock 95 Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon. 100
It was two by the village clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord[311] town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze 105 Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball. 110