The dusk of centuries and of song. The chronicles of Charlemagne, Of Merlin and the Mort d'Arthure, Mingled together in his brain
With tales of Flores and Blanchefleur, Sir Ferumbras, Sir Eglamour, Sir Launcelot, Sir Morgadour, Sir Guy, Sir Bevis, Sir Gawain.
A young Sicilian, too, was there; In sight of Etna born and bred, Some breath of its volcanic air Was glowing in his heart and brain, And, being rebellious to his liege, After Palermo's fatal siege, Across the western seas he fled, In good King Bomba's happy reign. His face was like a summer night, All flooded with a dusky light;
His hands were small; his teeth shone white As sea-shells, when he smiled or spoke; His sinews supple and strong as oak; Clean shaven was he as a priest, Who at the mass on Sunday sings, Save that upon his upper lip
His beard, a good palm's length at least, Level and pointed at the tip,
Shot sideways, like a swallow's wings. The poets read he o'er and o'er, And most of all the Immortal Four Of Italy; and next to those, The story-telling bard of prose, Who wrote the joyous Tuscan tales Of the Decameron, that make Fiesole's green hills and vales Remembered for Boccaccio's sake. Much too of music was his thought; The melodies and measures fraught With sunshine and the open air, Of Vineyards and the singing sca Of his beloved Sicily;
And much it pleased him to peruse The songs of the Sicilian muse,- Bucolic songs by Meli sung
In the familiar peasant tongue,
That made men say, "Behold! once more The pitying gods to earth restore Theocritus of Syracuse!"
A Spanish Jew from Alicant
With aspect grand and grave was there; Vender of silks and fabrics rare, And attar of rose from the Levant. Like an old Patriarch he appeared, Abraham or Isaac, or at least Some later Prophet or High-Priest; With lustrous eyes, and olive skin, And, wildly tossed from cheeks and chin, The tumbling cataract of his beard. His garments breathed a spicy scent Of cinnamon and sandal blent, Like the soft aromatic gales That meet the mariner, who sails Through the Moluccas, and the seas That wash the shores of Celebes. All stories that recorded are
By Pierre Alphonse he knew by heart, And it was rumored he could say The Parables of Sandabar,
And all the Fables of Pilpay, Or if not all, the greater part!
Well versed was he in Hebrew books, Talmud and Targum, and the lore Of Kabala; and evermore There was a mystery in his looks; His eyes seemed gazing far away, As if in vision or in trance
He heard the solemn sackbut play. And saw the Jewish maidens dance.
A Theologian, from the school Of Cambridge on the Charles, was there; Skilful alike with tongue and pen, He preached to all men everywhere The Gospel of the Golden Rule, The new Commandment given to men, Thinking the deed, and not the creed, Would help us in our utmost need. With reverent feet the earth he trod, Nor banished nature from his plan, But studied still with deep research To build the Universal Church. Lofty as in the love of God, And ample as the wants of man.
A Poet, too, was there, whose verse Was tender, musical, and terse; The inspiration, the delight, The gleam, the glory, the swift flight, Of thoughts so sudden, that they seem The revelations of a dream,
All these were his; but with them came No envy of another's fame;
He did not find his sleep less sweet For music in some neighboring street, Nor rustling hear in every breeze
The laurels of Miltiades.
Honor and blessings on his head
While living, good report when dead, Who, not too eager for renown, Accepts, but does not clutch, the crown!
Last the Musician, as he stood Illumined by that fire of wood; Fair-haired, blue-eyed, his aspect blithe, His figure tall and straight and lithe, And every feature of his face; Revealing his Norwegian race: A radiance, streaming from within, Around his eyes and forehead beamed, The Angel with the violin, Painted by Raphael, he seemed. He lived in that ideal world Whose language is not speech, but song; Around him evermore the throng
Of elves and sprites their dances whirled; The Strömkarl sang, the cataract hurled Its headlong waters from the height; And mingled in the wild delight The scream of sea-birds in their flight, The rumor of the forest trees, The plunge of the implacable sens, The tumult of the wind at night, Voices of eld, like trumpets blowing, Old ballads, and wild melodies Through mist and darkness pouring forth, Like Elivagar's river flowing Out of the glaciers of the North.
The instrument on which he played Was in Cremona's workshops made, By a great master of the past, Ere yet was lost the art divine; Fashioned of maple and of pine, That in Tyrolian forests vast Had rocked and wrestled with the blast: Exquisite was it in design,
Perfect in each minutest part,
A marvel of the lutist's art;
And in its hollow chamber, thus,
The maker from whose hands it came
Had written his unrivalled name,
The dead came from beneath the sea, The maiden to the harper's knee!
The music ceased; the applause was loud, The pleased musician smiled and bowed; The wood-fire clapped its hands of flame, The shadows on the wainscot stirred, And from the harpsichord there came A ghostly murmur of acclaim, A sound like that sent down at night By birds of passage in their flight, From the remotest distance heard.
Then silence followed; then began A clamor for the Landlord's tale,- The story promised them of old, They said, but always left untold; And he, although a bashful man, And all his courage seemed to fail, Finding excuse of no avail, Yielded; and thus the story ran.
LISTEN, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
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 tower as a signal light,- One, if by land, and two, if by sea; . 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 to arm.'
Then he said "Good night!" and with mufled
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 Across the moon like a prison bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the ti le.
Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, Wanders and watches with eager ears, 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.
Then he climbed the tower of the Old North
By 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 Masses and moving shapes of shade,- By 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, 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, 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 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 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,
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, 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, 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
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.
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, Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer's dog, 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
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.
It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock. And the twitter of birds among the trees, And feit the breath of the morning breeze 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.
You know the rest. In the books you have read, How the British Regulars fired and fled,- How the farmers gave them ball for hall, From behind each fence and farm-yard wall, Chasing the red-coats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rodo Paul Revero; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm,- A cry of defiance and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forevermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
THE Landlord ended thus his tale, Then rising took down from its nail The sword that hung there, dim with dust, And cleaving to its sheath with rust,
And said, "This sword was in the fight." The Poet seized it, and exclaimed, "It is the sword of a good knight, Though homespun was his coat-of-mail; What matter if it be not named Joyeuse, Colado, Durindale, Excalibar, or Aroundight,
Or other name the books record? Your ancestor, who bore this sword As Colonel of the Volunteers, Mounted upon his old gray mare, Seen here and there and everywhere, To me a grander shape appears Than old Sir William, or what not, Clinking about in foreign lands With iron gauntlets on his hands, And on his head an iron pot!"
All laughed; the Landlord's face grew red As his escutcheon on the wall; He could not comprehend at all The drift of what the Poet said; For those who had been longest dead Were always greatest in his eyes; And he was speechless with surprise To see Sir William's plumed head Brought to a level with the rest, And made the subject of a jest. And this perceiving, to appease The Landlord's wrath, the others' fears, The Student said, with careless ease, "The ladies and the cavaliers, The arms, the loves, the courtesies, The deeds of high emprise. I sing! Thus Ariosto says, in words
That have the stately stride and ring Of armed knights and clashing swords. Now listen to the tale I bring; Listen! though not to me belong The flowing draperies of his song,
The words that rouse, the voice that charms. The Landlord's tale was one of arms,
Only a tale of love is mine, Blending the human and divine, A tale of the Decameron, told In Palmieri's garden old, B Fiametta, laurel-crowned, While her companions lay around, And heard the intermingled sound Of airs that on their errands sped, And wild birds gossipping overhead, And lisp of leaves, and fountain's fall, And her own vo.ce more sweet than all, Telling the tale, which, wanting these, Perchance may lose its power to please."
THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO.
ONE summer morning, when the sun was hot, Weary with labor in his garden-plot, On a rude bench beneath his cottage eaves, Ser Federigo sat among the leaves
Of a huge vine, that, with its arms outspread, Hung in delicious clusters overhead.
Below him, through t..e lovely valley, flowed The river Arno, like a winding road,
And from its banks were lifted high in air The spires and roofs of Florence called the Fair; To him a marble tomb, that ro e above His wasted fortunes and his buried love. For there, in banquet and in tournament,
His wealth had lavished been, his substance spent, To woo and lose, since ill h.s wooing sped, Monna Giovanna, who his rival wed, Yet ever in his fancy reigned supreme, The ideal woman of a young man's dream.
Then he withdrew, in poverty and pain, To this small farm, the last of his domain, His only comfort and his only care
To prune his vines, and plant the fig and pear; His only forester and only guest
His Falcon, faithful to him, when the rest, Whose willing hands had foun 1 so light of yore The brazen knocker of his palace door, Hal now no strength to lift the wooden latch That entrance gave beneath a roof of thatch. Companion of his solitary ways, Purveyor of his feasts on holidays, On him this melancholy man bestowed The love with which his nature overflowed.
And so the empty-handed years went round, Vacant, though voiceful with prophetic sound, And so, that summer morn, he sat and mused With folded, patient hands, as he was used, And dreamily before his half-closed sight Floated the vision of his lost delight. Beside him, motionless, the drowsy bird Dreamed of the chase, and in his slumber heard The sudden, scythe-like sweep of wings, that dare The headlong plunge thro' eddying gulfs of air, Then, starting broad awake upon his perch, Tinkled his bells, like mass-bells in a church, And, looking at his master, seemed to say, "Ser Federigo, shall we hunt to-day? Ser Federigo thought not of the chase; The tender vision of her lovely face, I will not say he seems to see, he sees In the leaf-shadows of the trellises,
Herself, yet not herself; a lovely child With flowing tresses, and eyes wide and wild, Coming undaunted up the garden walk, And looking not at him, but at the hawk. Beautiful falcon!" said he, would that I Might hold thee on my wrist, or see thee fly!" The voice was hers, and made strange echoes start Through all the haunted chambers of his heart, As an æolian harp through gasty doors Of some old ruin its wild music pours.
"Who is thy mother, my fair boy?" he said, His hand laid softly on that shining head. "Monna Giovanna. Will you let me stay A little while, and with your falcon play? We live there, just beyond your garden wall, In the great house behind the poplars tall."
So he spake on; and Federigo heard As from afar each softly uttered word, And drifted onward through the golden gleams And shadows of the misty sea of dreams, As mariners becalmed through vapors drift, And feel the sea beneath them sink and lift, And hear far off the mournful breakers roar, And voices calling faintly from the shore! Then, waking from his pleasant reveries, He took the little boy upon his knees, And told him stories of his gallant bird, Till in their friendship he became a third.
Monna Giovanna, widowed in her prime, Had come with friends to pass the summer time In her grand villa, half-way up the hill, O'erlooking Florence, but retired and still; With iron gates, that opene i tarough long lines Of sacred ilex and centennial pines, And terraced gardens, and broad steps of stone, And sylvan de ties, with moss o'ergrown, And fountains palpitating in the heat, And all Val d'Arno stretched beneath its feet. Here in seclusion, as a widow may, The lovely lady whiled the hours away, Pacing in sable robes the statued hall, Herself the statel.est statue among all, And seeing more and more, with secret joy, Her husband risen and living in her boy, Till the lost sense of life returned again, Not as delight, but as relief from pain. Meanwhile the boy, rejoicing in his strength, Stormed down the terraces from length to length; The screaming peacock chased in hot pursuit, And climbed the garden trellises for fruit. But his chief pastime was to watch the flight Of a gerfalcon, soaring into sight, Beyond the trees that fringed the garden wall, Then downward stooping at some distant call; And as he gazed full often wondered he Who might the master of the falcon be, Until that happy morning, when he found Master and falcon in the cottage ground.
And now a shadow and a terror fell On the great house, as if a passing-bell Tolled from the tower, and filled each spacious
With secret awe, and preternatural gloom; The petted boy grew ill, and day by day Pined with mysterious malady away. The mother's heart would not be comforted; Her darling seemed to her already dead, And often, sitting by the sufferer's side, "What can I do to comfort thee?" she cried. At first the silent lips made no reply, But, moved at length by her importunate cry, "Give me," he answered, with imploring tone, "Ser Federigo's falcon for my own!" No answer could the astonished mother make; How could she ask, e'en for her darling's sike, Such favor at a luckless lover's hand, Well knowing that to ask was to command?
Well knowing, what all falconers confessed, In all the land that falcon was the best, The master's pride and passion and delight, And the sole pursuivant of this poor knight. But yet, for her child's sake, she could no less Than give assent, to soothe his restlessness, So promised, and then promising to keep Her promise sacred, saw him fall asleep.
The morrow was a bright September morn; The earth was beautiful as if new-born; There was that nameless splendor everywhere, That wild exhilaration in the air, Which makes the passers in the city street Congratulate each other as they meet. Two lovely ladies, clothed in cloak and hood, Passed through the garden gate into the wood, Under the lustrous leaves, and through the sheen Of dewy sunshine showering down between.
The one, close-hooded, had the attractive grace Which sorrow sometimes lends a woman's face; Her dark eyes moistened with the mists that roll From the gulf-stream of passion in the soul; The other with her hood thrown back, her hair Making a golden glory in the air,
Her cheeks suffused with an auroral blush, Her young heart singing louder than the thrush. So walked, that morn, through mingled light and shade,
Each by the other's presence lovelier made, Monna Giovanna and her bosom friend, Intent upon their errand and its end.
They found Ser Federigo at his toil, Like banished Adam, delving in the soil; And when he looked and these fair women spied, The garden suddenly was glorified; His long-lost Eden was restored again,
Which said, as plain as language to the car,
If anything is wanting, I am here!" Yes, everything is wanting, gallant bird! The master seized thee without further word. Like thine own lure, he whirled thee round; ah me!
The pomp and flutter of brave falconry, The bells, the jesses, the bright scarlet hood, The flight and the pursuit o'er field and wood, All these forevermore are ended now; No longer victor, but the victim thou!
Then on the board a snow-white cloth he spread, Laid on its wooden dish the loaf of bread, Brought purple grapes with autumn sunshine hot, The fragrant peach, the juicy bergamot; Then in the midst a flask of wine he placed, And with autumnal flowers the banquet graced. Ser Federigo, would not these suffice Without thy falcon stuffed with cloves and spice?
When all was ready, and the courtly dame With her companion to the cottage came, Upon Ser Federigo's brain there fell The wild enchantment of a magic spell! The room they entered, mean and low and small, Was changed into a sumptuous banquet-hall, With fanfares by aerial trumpets blown; The rustic chair she sat on was a throne; He ate celestial food, and a divine Flavor was given to his country wine, And the poor falcon, fragrant with his spice, A peacock was, or bird of paradise!
When the repast was ended, they arose And passed again into the garden-close. Then said the lady, Far too well I know, Remembering still the days of long ago, Though you betray it not, with what surprise
And the strange river winding through the plain You see me here in this familiar wise.
No longer was the Arno to his eyes, But the Euphrates watering Paradise!
Monna Giovanna raised her stately head, And with fair words of salutation said: "Ser Federigo, we come here as friends, Hoping in this to make some poor amends For past unkindness. I who ne'er before Would even cross the threshold of your door, I who in happier days such pride maintained, Refused your banquets, and your gifts disdained, This morning come, a self-invited guest, To put your generous nature to the test, And breakfast with you under your own vine." To which he answered: "Poor desert of mine, Not your unkindness call it, for if anght Is good in me of feeling or of thought, From you it comes, and this last grace outweighs All sorrows, all regrets of other days."
And after further compliment and talk, Among the dahlias in the garden walk He left his guests; and to his cottage turned, And as he entered for a moment yearned For the lost splendors of the days of old, The ruby glass, the silver and the gold, And felt how piercing is the st`ng of pride, By want embittered and intensified.
He looked about him for some means or way To keep this unexpected holiday; Searched every cupboard, and then searched again,
Summoned the maid, who came, but came in vain; "The Signor did not hunt to-day," she said, "There's nothing in the house but wine and
Then suddenly the drowsy falcon shook His little bells, with that sagacious look,
You have no children, and you cannot guess, What anguish, what unspeakable distress, A mother feels, whose child is lying ill, Nor how her heart anticipates his will. And yet for this, you see me lay aside All womanly reserve and check of pride, And ask the thing most precious in your sight, Your falcon, your sole comfort and delight. Which if you find it in your heart to give, My poor, unhappy boy perchance may live." Ser Federigo listens, and replies, With tears of love and pity in his eyes: "Alas, dear lady! there can be no task So sweet to me, as giving when you ask. One little hour ago, if I had known This wish of yours, it would have been my own. But thinking in what manner I could best Do honor to the presence of my guest, I deemed that Lothing worthier could be Than what most dear and precious was to me, And so my gallant falcon breathed his last To furnish forth this morning our repast."
In mute contrition, mingled with dismay, The gentle lady turned her eyes away, Grieving that he such sacrifice should make, And kill his falcon for a woman's sake, Yet feeling in her heart a woman's pride, That nothing she could ask for was denied; Then took her leave, and passed out at the gate, With footstep slow and soul disconsolate. Three days went by, and lo! a passing bell Tolled from the little chapel in the dell; Ten strokes Ser Federigo heard, and said, Breathing a prayer, Alas! her child is dead!" Three months went by; and lo! a merrier chime Rang from the chapel bells at Christmas time; The cottage was deserted, and no more
Ser Federigo sat beside its door,
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