Chapter 25
"Is it far away, in some region old, Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold?-- Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?" Is it there, sweet mother! that better land?" --"Not there, not there, my child!"
"Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy! Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy; Dreams cannot picture a world so fair-- Sorrow and death may not enter there; Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, --It is there, it is there, my child" Mrs. Hemans.
CLXXIII.
LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS.
The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woads against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed;
And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters 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's 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 have 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!
Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod! They have left unstained what there they found-- Freedom to worship God! Mrs. Hemans.
CLXXIV
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!--O! 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 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 hue 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 light!
Up from the ground he sprang 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 hopes, and all his young renown,-- He flung his falchion from his side, and in the dust sat 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--O! 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 rearing 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. Mrs. Hemans.
CLXXV.
BERNARDO AND KING ALPHONSO.
With some good ten of his chosen men, Bernardo hath appeared, Before them all in the palace hall, The lying king to beard; With cap in hand and eye on ground, He came in reverend guise, But ever and anon he frowned, And flame broke from his eyes.
"A curse upon thee," cries the king, "Who com'st unbid to me! But what from traitor's blood should spring, Save traitor like to thee? His sire, lords, had a traitor's heart,-- Perchance our champion brave May think it were a pious part To share Don Sancho's grave."
--"Whoever told this tale, The king hath rashness to repeat," Cries Bernard, "here my gage I fling Before the liar's feet! No treason was in Sancho's blood-- No stain in mine doth lie: Below the throne what knight will own The coward calumny?
"The blood that I like water shed, When Roland did advance, By secret traitors hired and led, To make us slaves of France; The life of king Alphonso I saved at Roncesval-- Your words, Lord King, are recompense Abundant for it all.
"Your horse was down--your hope was flown-- I saw the falchion shine That soon had drunk your royal blood, Had I not ventured mine; But memory soon of service done Deserteth the ingrate; You've thanked the son for life and crown By the father's bloody fate.
"Ye swore upon your kingly faith To set Don Sancho free; But, curse upon your paltering breath! The light he never did see; He died in dungeon cold and dim, By Alphonso's base decree; And visage blind and stiffened limb, Were all they gave to me.
"The king that swerveth from his word, Hath stained his purple black; No Spanish lord will draw his sword Behind a liar's back; But noble vengeance shall be mine, And open hate I'll show-- The king hath injured Carpio's line, And Bernard is his foe!"
--"Seize, seize him!" loud the King doth scream; "There are a thousand here! Let his foul blood this instant stream;-- What! caitiffs, do ye fear? Seize, seize the traitor!" But not one To move a finger dareth; Bernardo standeth by the throne, And calm his sword he bareth.
He drew the falchion from the sheath, And held it up on high; And all the hall was still as death;-- Cries Bernard, "Here am I-- And here's the sword that owns no lord, Excepting Heaven and me; Fain would I know who dares its point,-- King, Condé or Grandee."
Then to his mouth his horn he drew-- It hung below his cloak-- His ten true men the signal knew, And through the ring they broke; With helm on head, and blade in hand, The knights the circle break, And back the lordlings 'gan to stand, And the false king to quake.
"Ha! Bernard," quoth Alphonso, "What means this warlike guise? Ye know full well I jested-- Ye know your worth I prize!" But Bernard turned upon his heel, And, smiling, passed away:-- Long rued Alphonso and his realm The jesting of that day! J. G. Lockhart.
CLXXVI.
THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.
One more unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly Lift her with care; Fashioned so slenderly Young, and so fair!
Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing: Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing.
Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully Gentle and humanly; Not of the stains of her-- All that remains of her Now is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful: Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful.
Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; While wonderment guesses Where was her home?
Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun! Oh! it was pitiful Near a whole city full Home she had none!
Sisterly, brotherly Fatherly, motherly Feelings had changed: Love by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence; Even God's providence Seeming estranged.
When the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood with amazement Houseless by night. The bleak winds of March Made her tremble and shiver But not the dark arch, Of the black flowing river.
Mad from life's history Glad to death's mystery Swift to be hurled-- Anywhere, anywhere, Out of the world-- In she plunged boldly, No matter how coldly The rough river ran.
Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashioned so slenderly Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly, Decently, kindly, smooth, and compose them; And her eyes, close them, Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fixed on futurity,
Perishing gloomily, Spurred by contumely Cold inhumanity, Burning insanity, Into her rest. --Cross her hands humbly As if praying dumbly, Over her breast! Owning her weakness, Her evil behavior, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour! T. Hood.
CLXXVII.
SONG OF THE SHIRT.
With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread,-- Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, She sang the "Song of the Shirt."
"Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof! And work,--work,--work, Till the stars shine through the roof! It's, oh! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work!
"Work,--work,--work! Till the brain begins to swim, Work,--work,--work, Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream!
"Oh! men, with sisters dear! Oh! men with mothers and wives! --It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives! Stitch,--stitch,--stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once, with a double thread, A shroud as well as a shirt.
"But why do I talk of death, That Phantom of grizzly bone? I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own; It seems so like my own, Because of the fasts I keep; Oh, God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap!
"Work,--work,--work! My labor never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread,--and rags.-- That shattered roof,--and this naked floor,-- A table,--a broken chair,-- And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there!
"Work,--work,--work! From weary chime to chime! Work,--work,--work, As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand.
"Work,--work,--work, In the dull December light, And work,--work,--work, When the weather is warm and bright; While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs And twit me with the Spring.
"Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweets-- With the sky above my head And the grass beneath my feet; For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel Before I knew the woes of want, And the walk that costs a meal!
"Oh! for but one short hour, A respite, however brief! No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, But only time for Grief! A little weeping would ease my heart; But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread!"
With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags Plying her needle and thread-- Stitch!--stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,-- Would that its song could reach the rich!-- She sang this "Song of the Shirt." T. Hood.
CLXXVIII.
LOOK ALOFT.
In the tempest of life, when the waves and the gale Are around and above, if thy footing should fail, If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution depart, "Look aloft," and be firm, and be fearless of heart.
If thy friend, who embraced in prosperity's glow, With a smile for each joy, and a tear for each woe, Should betray thee when sorrows like clouds are arrayed, "Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall fade.
Should the visions which hope spreads in light to the eye, Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly, Then turn, and, through tears of repentant regret, "Look aloft" to the sun that is never to set.
Should they who are dearest,--the son of thy heart, The wife of thy bosom,--in sorrow depart, "Look aloft," from the darkness and dust of the tomb, To that soil where affection is ever to bloom.
And, oh! when Death comes in his terror to cast His fears on the future, his pall on the past, In that moment of darkness with hope in thy heart, And a smile in thine eye, "look aloft"--and depart. J. Lawrence.
CLXXIX.
PRESS ON.
Press on! there's no such word as fail! Press nobly on! the goal is near,-- Ascend the mountain! breast the gale! Look upward, onward,--never fear! Why should'st thou faint? Heaven smiles above, Though storm and vapor intervene; That sun shines on, whose name is Love, Serenely o'er Life's shadowed scene. Press on! surmount the rocky steeps, Climb boldly o'er the torrent's arch; He fails alone who feebly creeps; He wins who dares the hero's march. Be thou a hero! let thy might Tramp on eternal snows its way, And, through the ebon wails of night Hew down a passage unto day. Press on! if once and twice thy feet Slip back and stumble, harder try; From him who never dreads to meet Danger and death, they're sure to fly. To coward ranks the bullet speeds, While on their breasts, who never quail, Gleams, guardian of chivalric deeds, Bright courage, like a coat of mail. Press on! if Fortune play thee false To-day, to-morrow she'll be true; Whom now she sinks, she now exalts Taking old gifts, and granting new. The wisdom of the present hour Makes up for follies past and gone;-- To weakness strength succeeds, and power From frailty springs,--press on! press on!