Chapter 31

Not a flower to be prest of the foot that falls not; As the heart of a dead man the seed-plots are dry; From the thicket of thorns whence the nightingale calls not, Could she call, there were never a rose to reply. Over the meadows that blossom and wither Rings but the note of sea-bird's song; Only the sun and the rain come hither All year long.

The sun burns sere and the rain dishevels One gaunt bleak blossom of scentless breath. Only the wind here hovers and revels In a round where life seems barren as death. Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping, Haply, of lovers none ever will know, Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleeping Years ago.

Heart handfast in heart as they stood, "Look thither," Did he whisper? "Look forth from the flowers to the sea; For the foam-flowers endure when the rose-blossoms wither, And men that love lightly may die--but we?" And the same wind sang and the same waves whiten'd, And or ever the garden's last petals were shed, In the lips that had whisper'd, the eyes that had lighten'd, Love was dead.

Or they lov'd their life through, and then went whither? And were one to the end--but what end who knows? Love deep as the sea as a rose must wither, As the rose-red seaweed that mocks the rose. Shall the dead take thought for the dead to love them? What love was ever as deep as a grave? They are loveless now as the grass above them Or the wave.

All are at one now, roses and lovers, Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the sea. Not a breath of the time that has been hovers In the air now soft with a summer to be. Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons hereafter Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or weep, When as they that are free now of weeping and laughter We shall sleep.

Here death may deal not again for ever; Here change may come not till all change end. From the graves they have made they shall rise up never, Who have left nought living to ravage and rend. Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground growing, When the sun and the rain live, these shall be; Till a last wind's breath upon all these blowing Roll the sea.

Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble, Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink, Till the strength of the waves of the high tides humble The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink, Here now in his triumph where all things falter, Stretch'd out on the spoils that his own hand spread, As a god self-slain on his own strange altar, Death lies dead.

CII. A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH OF THE SPANISH ARMADA.

(BALLADE.)

AUSTIN DOBSON.--1840-

King Philip had vaunted his claims; He had sworn for a year he would sack us; With an army of heathenish names He was coming to fagot and stack us; Like the thieves of the sea he would track us, And shatter our ships on the main; But we had bold Neptune to back us,-- And where are the galleons of Spain?

His carackes were christen'd of dames To the kirtles whereof he would tack us; With his saints and his gilded stern-frames, He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us; Now Howard may get to his Flaccus, And Drake to his Devon again, And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus,-- For where are the galleons of Spain?

Let his Majesty hang to St. James The axe that he whetted to hack us; He must play at some lustier games Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us; To his mines of Peru he would pack us To tug at his bullet and chain; Alas! that his Greatness should lack us!-- But where are the galleons of Spain?

ENVOY.

GLORIANA!--the Don may attack us Whenever his stomach be fain; He must reach us before he can rack us, ... And where are the galleons of Spain?

* * * * *

_He lives not best who dreads the coming pain And shunneth each delight desirable:_ FLEE THOU EXTREMES, _this word alone is plain, Of all that God hath given to Man to spell!_

ANDREW LANG.--1844. _From Sonnets from the Antique._

CIII. CIRCE.

(TRIOLET.)

AUSTIN DOBSON.

In the School of Coquettes Madame Rose is a scholar:-- O, they fish with all nets In the School of Coquettes! When her brooch she forgets 'Tis to show her new collar; In the School of Coquettes Madame Rose is a scholar!

CIV. SCENES FROM "TECUMSEH."[Q]

CHARLES MAIR.--1840-

SCENE.--TECUMSEH'S _Cabin_.

_Enter_ IENA.

_Iena._ 'Tis night, and Mamatee is absent still! Why should this sorrow weigh upon my heart, And other lonely things on earth have rest? Oh, could I be with them! The lily shone All day upon the stream, and now it sleeps Under the wave in peace--in cradle soft Which sorrow soon may fashion for my grave. Ye shadows which do creep into my thoughts-- Ye curtains of despair! what is my fault, That ye should hide the happy earth from me? Once I had joy of it, when tender Spring, Mother of beauty, hid me in her leaves; When Summer led me by the shores of song, And forests and far-sounding cataracts Melted my soul with music. I have heard The rough chill harpings of dismantled woods, When Fall had stripp'd them, and have felt a joy Deeper than ear could lend unto the heart; And when the Winter from his mountains wild Look'd down on death, and, in the frosty sky, The very stars seem'd hung with icicles, Then came a sense of beauty calm and cold, That wean'd me from myself, yet knit me still With kindred bonds to Nature. All is past, And he--who won from me such love for him, And he--my valiant uncle and my friend, Comes not to lift the cloud that drapes my soul, And shield me from the fiendish Prophet's power.

_Enter_ MAMATEE.

Give me his answer in his very words!

_Mamatee._ There is a black storm raging in his mind-- His eye darts lightning like the angry cloud Which hangs in woven darkness o'er the earth. Brief is his answer--you must go to him. The Long-Knife's camp-fires gleam among the oaks Which dot yon western hill. A thousand men Are sleeping there cajoled to fatal dreams By promises the Prophet breaks to-night. Hark! 'tis the war-song.

_Iena._ Dares the Prophet now Betray Tecumseh's trust, and break his faith?

_Mamatee._ He dares do anything will feed ambition. His dancing braves are frenzied by his tongue, Which prophesies revenge and victory. Before the break of day he will surprise The Long-Knife's camp, and hang our people's fate Upon a single onset.

_Iena._ Should he fail?

_Mamatee._ Then all will fail;--Tecumseh's scheme will fail.[R]

_Iena._ It shall not! Let us go to him at once!

_Mamatee._ And risk your life?

_Iena._ Risk hovers everywhere When night and man combine for darksome deeds. I'll go to him, and argue on my knees-- Yea, yield my hand--would I could give my heart To stay his purpose and this act of ruin.

_Mamatee._ He is not in the mood for argument. Rash girl! they die who would oppose him now.

_Iena._ Such death were sweet as life--I go! But, first-- Great Spirit! I commit my soul to Thee. [_Kneels._

SCENE.--_An open space in the forest near the Prophet's Town. A fire of billets burning. War-cries are heard from the town._

_Enter the_ PROPHET.

_Prophet._ My spells do work apace! Shout yourselves hoarse, Ye howling ministers by whom I climb! For this I've wrought until my weary tongue, Blister'd with incantation, flags in speech, And half declines its office. Every brave Inflamed by charms and oracles, is now A vengeful serpent, who will glide ere morn To sting the Long-Knife's sleeping camp to death. Why should I hesitate? My promises! My duty to Tecumseh! What are these Compared with duty here? Where I perceive A near advantage, there my duty lies; Consideration strong which overweighs All other reason. Here is Harrison-- Trepann'd to dangerous lodgment for the night-- Each deep ravine which grooves the prairie's breast A channel of approach; each winding creek A screen for creeping death. Revenge is sick To think of such advantage flung aside. For what? To let Tecumseh's greatness grow, Who gathers his rich harvest of renown Out of the very fields that I have sown! By Manitou, I will endure no more! Nor, in the rising flood of our affairs, Fish like an osprey for this eagle longer. But, soft! It is the midnight hour when comes Tarhay to claim his bride. [_Calls._] Tarhay! Tarhay!

_Enter_ TARHAY _with several braves._

_Tarhay._ Tarhay is here!

_Prophet._ The Long-Knives die to-night. The spirits which do minister to me Have breathed this utterance within my ear. You know my sacred office cuts me off From the immediate leadership in fight. My nobler work is in the spirit-world, And thence come promises which make us strong. Near to the foe I'll keep the Magic Bowl, Whilst you, Tarhay, shall lead our warriors on.

_Tarhay._ I'll lead them; they are wild with eagerness. But fill my cold and empty cabin first With light and heat! You know I love your niece, And have the promise of her hand to-night.

_Prophet._ She shall be yours! [_To the braves._] Go bring her here at once-- But, look! Fulfilment of my promise comes In her own person.

_Enter_ IENA _and_ MAMATEE.

Welcome, my sweet niece! You have forstall'd my message by these braves, And come unbidden to your wedding-place.

_Iena._ Uncle! you know my heart is far away--

_Prophet._ But still your hand is here! this little hand! [_Pulling her forward._

_Iena._ Dare you enforce a weak and helpless girl, Who thought to move you by her misery? Stand back! I have a message for you too. What means the war-like song, the dance of braves, And bustle in our town?

_Prophet._ It means that we Attack the foe to-night.

_Iena._ And risk our all? O that Tecumseh knew! his soul would rush In arms to intercept you. What! break faith, And on the hazard of a doubtful strife, Stake his great enterprise and all our lives! The dying curses of a ruin'd race Will wither up your wicked heart for this!

_Prophet._ False girl! your heart is with our foes; Your hand I mean to turn to better use.

_Iena._ Oh, could it turn you from your mad intent How freely would I give it! Drop this scheme, Dismiss your frenzied warriors to their beds; And, if contented with my hand, Tarhay Can have it here.

_Tarhay._ I love you, Iena!

_Iena._ Then must you love what I do! Love our race! 'Tis this love nerves Tecumseh to unite Its scatter'd tribes--his fruit of noble toil, Which you would snatch unripen'd from his hand, And feed to sour ambition. Touch it not-- Oh, touch it not, Tarhay! and though my heart Breaks for it, I am yours.

_Prophet._ His anyway, Or I am not the Prophet!

_Tarhay._ For my part I have no leaning to this rash attempt, Since Iena consents to be my wife.

_Prophet._ Shall I be thwarted by a yearning fool! [_Aside._ This soft, sleek girl, to outward seeming good, I know to be a very fiend beneath-- Whose sly affections centre on herself, And feed the gliding snake within her heart.

_Tarhay._ I cannot think her so--

_Mamatee._ She is not so! There is the snake that creeps among our race; Whose venom'd fangs would bile into our lives, And poison all our hopes.

_Prophet._ She is the head-- The very neck of danger to me here, Which I must break at once! [_Aside._] Tarhay--attend! I can see dreadful visions in the air; I can dream awful dreams of life and fate; I can bring darkness on the heavy earth; I can fetch shadows from our fathers' graves, And spectres from the sepulchres of hell. Who dares dispute with me, disputes with death! Dost hear, Tarhay?

[TARHAY _and braves cower before the_ PROPHET.

_Tarhay._ I hear, and will obey. Spare me! Spare me!

_Prophet._ As for this foolish girl, The hand she offers you on one condition, I give to you upon a better one; And, since she has no mind to give her heart-- Which, rest assured, is in her body still-- There,--take it at my hands!

[_Flings_ IENA _violently towards_ TARHAY, _into whose arms she falls fainting, and is then borne away by_ MAMATEE.

[_To_ TARHAY.] Go bring the braves to view the Mystic Torch And belt of Sacred Beans grown from my flesh-- One touch of it makes them invulnerable-- Then creep, like stealthy panthers, on the foe!

SCENE.--_Morning. The field of Tippecanoe after the battle. The ground strewn with dead soldiers and warriors._

_Enter_ HARRISON, _officers and soldiers, and_ BARRON.

_Harrison._ A costly triumph reckon'd by our slain! Look how some lie still clench'd with savages In all-embracing death, their bloody hands Glued in each other's hair! Make burial straight Of all alike in deep and common graves: Their quarrel now is ended.

_1st Officer._ I have heard The red man fears our steel--'twas not so here; From the first shots, which drove our pickets in, Till daylight dawn'd, they rush'd upon our lines, And flung themselves upon our bayonet points In frenzied recklessness of bravery.

_Barron._ They trusted in the Prophet's rites and spells, Which promis'd them immunity from death. All night he sat on yon safe eminence, Howling his songs of war and mystery, Then fled, at dawn, in fear of his own braves.

_Enter an_ AIDE.

_Harrison._ What tidings bring you from the Prophet's Town?

_Aide._ The wretched women with their children fly To distant forests for concealment. In Their village is no living thing save mice Which scamper'd as we oped each cabin door. Their pots still simmer'd on the vacant hearths, Standing in dusty silence and desertion. Naught else we saw, save that their granaries Were cramm'd with needful corn.

_Harrison._ Go bring it all-- Then burn their village down! [_Exit_ AIDE.

_2nd Officer._ This victory Will shake Tecumseh's project to the base. Were I the Prophet I should drown myself Rather than meet him.

_Barron._ We have news of him-- Our scouts report him near in heavy force.

_Harrison._ 'Twill melt, or draw across the British line, And wait for war. But double the night watch, Lest he should strike, and give an instant care To all our wounded men: to-morrow's sun Must light us on our backward march for home. Thence Rumor's tongue will spread so proud a story New England will grow envious of our glory; And, greedy for renown so long abhorr'd, Will on old England draw the tardy sword!

SCENE.--_The Ruins of the Prophet's Town._

_Enter the_ PROPHET, _who gloomily surveys the place._

_Prophet._ Our people scatter'd, and our town in ashes! To think these hands could work such madness here-- This envious head devise this misery! Tecumseh, had not my ambition drawn Such sharp and fell destruction on our race You might have smiled at me! for I have match'd My cunning 'gainst your wisdom, and have dragg'd Myself and all into a sea of ruin.

_Enter_ TECUMSEH.

_Tecumseh._ Devil! I have discover'd you at last! You sum of treacheries, whose wolfish fangs Have torn our people's flesh--you shall not live!

[_The_ PROPHET _retreats facing and followed by_ TECUMSEH.

_Prophet._ Nay--strike me not! I can explain it all! It was a woman touch'd the Magic Bowl, And broke the brooding spell.

_Tecumseh._ Impostor! Slave! Why should I spare you? [_Lifts his hand as if to strike._

_Prophet._ Stay, stay, touch me not! One mother bore us in the self-same hour.

_Tecumseh._ Then good and evil came to light together. Go to the corn-dance, change your name to villain! Away! Your presence tempts my soul to mischief. [_Exit the_ PROPHET _hastily._ Would that I were a woman, and could weep, And slake hot rage with tears! O spiteful fortune, To lure me to the limit of my dreams, Then turn and crowd the ruin of my toil Into the narrow compass of a night! My brother's deep disgrace--myself the scorn Of envious harriers and thieves of fame, Who fain would rob me of the lawful meed Of faithful services and duties done-- Oh, I could bear it all! But to behold Our ruin'd people hunted to their graves-- To see the Long-Knife triumph in their shame-- This is the burning shaft, the poison'd wound That rankles in my soul! But, why despair? All is not lost--the English are our friends. My spirit rises--manhood bear me up! I'll haste to Malden, join my force to theirs, And fall with double fury on our foes. Farewell ye plains and forests, but rejoice! Ye yet shall echo to Tecumseh's voice.

_Enter_ LEFROY.

_Lefroy._ What tidings have you glean'd of Iena?

_Tecumseh._ My brother meant to wed her to Tarhay-- The chief who led his warriors to ruin; But, in the gloom and tumult of the night, She fled into the forest all alone.

_Lefroy._ Alone! In the wide forest all alone! Angels are with her now, for she is dead.

_Tecumseh._ You know her to be skilful with the bow. 'Tis certain she would strike for some great Lake-- Erie or Michigan. At the Detroit Are people of our nation, and perchance She fled for shelter there. I go at once To join the British force. [_Exit_ TECUMSEH.

_Lefroy._ But yesterday I climb'd to Heaven upon the shining stairs Of love and hope, and here am quite cast down. My little flower amidst a weedy world, Where art thou now? In deepest forest shade? Or onward, where the sumach stands array'd In autumn splendor, its alluring form Fruited, yet odious with the hidden worm? Or, farther, by some still sequester'd lake, Loon-haunted, where the sinewy panthers slake Their noon-day thirst, and never voice is heard Joyous of singing waters, breeze or bird, Save their wild wailings.--[_A halloo without._] 'Tis Tecumseh calls! Oh Iena! If dead, where'er thou art-- Thy saddest grave will be this ruin'd heart! [_Exit._

FOOTNOTES:

[Q] These scenes are enacted at the "Prophet's Town," an Indian village, situated at the junction of the Tippecanoe river with the Wabash, the latter a tributary of the Ohio. Tecumseh is gone on a mission to the Southern Indians to induce them to unite in a confederation of all the Indian tribes, leaving his brother, the Prophet, in charge of the tribes already assembled, having strictly enjoined upon him not to quarrel with the Americans, or Long-Knives, as the Indians called them, during his absence. General Harrison, Governor of Indiana, and commander of the American forces, having learned of Tecumseh's plans, marches to attack the Prophet; but the latter, pretending to be friendly, sends out some chiefs to meet Harrison. By the advice of these chiefs, the Americans encamp on an elevated plateau, near the Prophet's Town,--"a very fitting place," to the mind of Harrison's officers, but to the practised eye of Harrison himself, also well fitted for a night attack by the Indians. He, therefore, very wisely makes all necessary preparations for defence against any sudden attack. Tecumseh has left behind him, under the protection of the Prophet, his wife, Mamatee, and his niece, Iena. He is accompanied on his mission by Lefroy, an English poet-artist, "enamoured of Indian life, and in love with Iena." The Prophet, who is hostile to Lefroy, intends to marry Iena to Tarhay, one of his chiefs, but Mamatee has gone to intercede with her brother-in-law for Iena, and, if possible, to turn him from his purpose.

[R] Tecumseh had long foreseen that nothing but combination could prevent the encroachments of the whites upon the Ohio, and had long been successfully endeavoring to bring about a union of the tribes who inhabited its valley. The Fort Wayne treaties gave a wider scope to his design, and he now originated his great scheme of a federation of the entire red race. In pursuance of this object, his exertions, hitherto very arduous, became almost superhuman. He made repeated journeys, and visited almost every tribe from the Gulf of Mexico to the Great Lakes, and even north of them, and far to the west of the Mississippi. In order to further his scheme he took advantage of his brother's growing reputation as a prophet, and allowed him to gain a powerful hold upon the superstitious minds of his people by his preaching and predictions. The Prophet professed to have obtained from the Great Spirit a magic bowl, which possessed miraculous qualities; also a mystic torch, presumably from Nanabush, the keeper of the sacred fire. He asserted that a certain belt, said to make those invulnerable who touched it whilst in his hands, was composed of beans which had grown from his flesh; and this belt was circulated far and wide by Indian runners, finding its way even to the Red River of the North. These, coupled with his oratory and mummeries, greatly enhanced an influence which was possibly added to by a gloomy and saturnine countenance, made more forbidding still by the loss of an eye. Unfortunately for Tecumseh's enterprise, the Prophet was more bent upon personal notoriety than upon the welfare of his people; and, whilst professing the latter, indulged his ambition, in Tecumseh's absence, by a precipitate attack upon Harrison's force on the Tippecanoe. His defeat discredited his assumption of supernatural powers, led to distrust and defection, and wrecked Tecumseh's plan of independent action. But the protection of his people was Tecumseh's sole ambition; and, true statesman that he was, he joined the British at Amherstburg (Fort Malden), in Upper Canada, with a large force, and in the summer of 1812 began that series of services to the British interest which has made his name a household word in Canada, and endeared him to the Canadian heart.--_From_ AUTHOR'S NOTE.

CV. THE RETURN OF THE SWALLOWS.

EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE.--1849-

"Out in the meadows the young grass springs, Shivering with sap," said the larks, "and we Shoot into air with our strong young wings Spirally up over level and lea; Come, O Swallows, and fly with us Now that horizons are luminous! Evening and morning the world of light, Spreading and kindling, is infinite!"

Far away, by the sea in the south, The hills of olive and slopes of fern Whiten and glow in the sun's long drouth, Under the heavens that beam and burn; And all the swallows were gather'd there Flitting about in the fragrant air, And heard no sound from the larks, but flew Flashing under the blinding blue.

Out of the depths of their soft rich throats Languidly fluted the thrushes, and said: "Musical thought in the mild air floats, Spring is coming and winter is dead! Come, O Swallows, and stir the air, For the buds are all bursting unaware, And the drooping eaves and the elm-trees long To hear the sound of your low sweet song."

Over the roofs of the white Algiers, Flashingly shadowing the bright bazaar, Flitted the swallows, and not one hears The call of the thrushes from far, from far; Sigh'd the thrushes; then, all at once, Broke out singing the old sweet tones, Singing the bridal of sap and shoot, The tree's slow life between root and fruit.

But just when the dingles of April flowers Shine with the earliest daffodils, When, before sunrise, the cold clear hours Gleam with a promise that noon fulfils,-- Deep in the leafage the cuckoo cried, Perch'd on a spray by a rivulet-side, "Swallows, O Swallows, come back again To swoop and herald the April rain."