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To him are towers on the Spanish coast,
With whiskered sentinels at their post,
Though this is the river Maese.

But when the winter rains begin,

He sits and smokes by the blazing brands, And old seafaring men come in, Goat-bearded, gray, and with double chin, And rings upon their hands.

They sit there in the shadow and shine

Of the flickering fire of the winter night; Figures in color and design Like those by Rembrandt of the Rhine, Half darkness and half light.

And they talk of ventures lost or won,

And their talk is ever and ever the same, While they drink the red wine of Tarragon, From the cellars of some Spanish Don, Or convent set on flame.

Restless at times with heavy strides
He paces his parlor to and fro;
He is like a ship that at anchor rides,
And swings with the rising and falling tides,
And tugs at her anchor-tow.

Voices mysterious far and near,

Sound of the wind and sound of the sea, Are calling and whispering in his ear, "Simon Danz! Why stayest thou here? Come forth and follow me!"

So he thinks he shall take to the sea again
For one more cruise with his buccaneers,
To singe the beard of the King of Spain,
And capture another Dean of Jaen
And sell him in Algiers.

CASTLES IN SPAIN.

How much of my young heart, O Spain,
Went out to thee in days of yore!
What dreams romantic filled my brain,
And summoned back to life again
The Paladins of Charlemagne,
The Cid Campeador!

And shapes more shadowy than these,
In the dim twilight half revealed;
Phoenician galleys on the seas,
The Roman camps like hives of bees,
The Goth uplifting from his knees
Pelayo on his shield.

It was these memories perchance,
From annals of remotest eld,
That lent the colors of romance
To every trivial circumstance,
And changed the form and countenance
Of all that I beheld.

Old towns, whose history lies hid
In monkish chronicle or rhyme,
Burgos, the birthplace of the Cid,
Zamora and Valladolid,
Toledo, built and walled amid

The wars of Wamba's time;

The long, straight line of the highway,
The distant town that seems so near,
The peasants in the fields, that stay
Their toil to cross themselves and pray,
When from the belfry at midday
The Angelus they hear;

White crosses in the mountain pass,
Mules gay with tassels, the loud din

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272.

THE REVENGE OF RAIN-IN-THE-FACE. THE EMPEROR'S GLOVE.

High o'er the sea-surge and the sands,

Like a great galleon wrecked and cast Ashore by storms, thy castle stands, A mouldering landmark of the Past. Upon its terrace-walk I see

A phantom gliding to and fro; It is Colonna, - it is she

Who lived and loved so long ago.

Pescara's beautiful young wife,

The type of perfect womanhood, Whose life was love, the life of life,

That time and change and death withstood.

For death, that breaks the marriage band
In others, only closer pressed
The wedding-ring upon her hand

And closer locked and barred her breast.

She knew the life-long martyrdom,
The weariness, the endless pain
Of waiting for some one to come
Who nevermore would come again.

The shadows of the chestnut-trees,
The odor of the orange blooms,

The song of birds, and, more than these,
The silence of deserted rooms;

The respiration of the sea,

The soft caresses of the air, All things in nature seemed to be But ministers of her despair;

Till the o'erburdened heart, so long Imprisoned in itself, found vent And voice in one impassioned song Of inconsolable lament.

Then as the sun, though hidden from sight,
Transmutes to gold the leaden mist,
Her life was interfused with light,

From realms that, though unseen, exist.

Inarimé! Inarimé!

Thy castle on the crags above In dust shall crumble and decay,

But not the memory of her love.

THE REVENGE OF RAIN-IN-THE-FACE.

IN that desolate land and lone,
Where the Big Horn and Yellowstone
Roar down their mountain path,

By their fires the Sioux Chiefs
Muttered their woes and griefs

And the menace of their wrath.

Revenge!" cried Rain-in-the-Face, "Revenge upon all the race

Of the White Chief with yellow hair!" And the mountains dark and high From their crags re-echoed the cry

Of his anger and despair.

In the meadow, spreading wide
By woodland and riverside
The Indian village stood;
All was silent as a dream,
Save the rushing of the stream
And the blue-jay in the wood.

In his war paint and his beads,
Like a bison among the reeds,

In ambush the Sitting Bull
Lay with three thousand braves
Crouched in the clefts and caves,
Savage, unmerciful!

Into the fatal snare

The White Chief with yellow hair
And his three hundred men
Dashed headlong, sword in hand;
But of that gallant baud
Not one returned again.

The sudden darkness of death
Overwhelmed them like the breath
And smoke of a furnace fire:
By the river's bank and between
The rocks of the ravine,

They lay in their bloody attire.

But the foemen fled in the night,
And Rain-in-the Face, in his flight,
Uplifted high in air

As a ghastly trophy, bore
The brave heart, that beat no more,

Of the White Chief with yellow hair. Whose was the right and the wrong? Sing it, O funeral song,

With a voice that is full of tears, And say that our broken faith Wrought all this ruin and scathe, In the Year of a Hundred Years.

TO THE RIVER YVETTE.

O LOVELY river of Yvette!
O darling river! like a bride,
Some dimpled, bashful, fair Lisette,
Thou goest to wed the Orge's tide.
Maincourt, and lordly Dampierre,

See and salute thee on thy way,
And, with a blessing and a prayer,
Ring the sweet bells of St. Forget.

The valley of Chevreuse in vain
Would hold thee in its fond embrace;
Thou glidest from its arms again

And hurriest on with swifter pace.

Thou wilt not stay; with restless feet
Pursuing still thine onward flight,
Thou goest as one in haste to meet
Her sole desire, her heart's delight.

O lovely river of Yvette!

O darling stream! on balanced wings The wood-birds sang the chansonnette That here a wandering poet sings.

THE EMPEROR'S GLOVE.

COMBIEN faudrait-il de peaux d'Espagne pour faire un gant de cette grandeur? A play upon the words gant, a glove, and Gand, the French for Ghent.

ON St. Bavon's tower, commanding
Half of Flanders, his domain,
Charles the Emperor once was standing,
While beneath him on the landing

Stood Duke Alva and his train.

Like a print in books of fables,
Or a model made for show,

With its pointed roofs and gables,
Dormer windows, scrolls and labels,
Lay the city far below.

Through its squares and streets and alleys
Poured the populace of Ghent;

As a routed army rallies,

Or as rivers run through valleys,
Hurrying to their homes they went.

A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET. -THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG.

"Nest of Lutheran misbelievers!"

Cried Duke Alva as he gazed;
"Haunt of traitors and deceivers,
Stronghold of insurgent weavers,
Let it to the ground be razed!"

On the Emperor's cap the feather
Nods, as laughing he replies:
"How many skins of Spanish leather,
Think you, would, if stitched together,
Make a glove of such a size?"

A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET. OCTOBER, 1746.

MR. THOMAS PRINCE loquitur.

A FLEET with flags arrayed

Sailed from the port of Brest,
And the Admiral's ship displayed
The signal: "Steer southwest."
For this Admiral D'Anville

Had sworn by cross and crown
To ravage with fire and steel
Our helpless Boston Town.

There were rumors in the street,
In the houses there was fear
Of the coming of the fleet,

And the danger hovering near.
And while from mouth to mouth
Spread the tidings of dismay,
I stood in the Old South,
Saying humbly: "Let us pray!

"O Lord! we would not advise;
But if in thy Providence

A tempest should arise

To drive the French Fleet hence,
And scatter it far and wide,

Or sink it in the sea,

We should be satisfied,
And thine the glory be."

This was the prayer I made,

For my soul was all on flame,
And even as I prayed

The answering tempest came;
It came with a mighty power,

Shaking the windows and walls,
And tolling the bell in the tower,
As it tolls at funerals.

The lightning suddenly

Unsheathed its flaming sword, And I cried: "Stand still, and see The salvation of the Lord!" The heavens were black with cloud, The sea was white with hail, And ever more fierce and loud Blew the October gale.

The fleet it overtook,

And the broad sails in the van Like the tents of Cushan shook, Or the curtains of Midian. Down on the reeling decks Crashed the o'erwhelming seas; Ah, never were there wrecks So pitiful as these!

Like a potter's vessel broke

The great ships of the line;

They were carried away as a smoke,
Or sank like lead in the brine.
O Lord! before thy path
They vanished and ceased to be,

When thou didst walk in wrath With thine horses through the sea!

THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG.

MOUNTED on Kyrat strong and fleet,
His chestnut steed with four white feet.
Roushan Beg, called Kurroglou,
Son of the road and bandit chief,
Seeking refuge and relief,

Up the mountain pathway flew.

Such was Kyrat's wondrous speed,
Never yet could any steed

Reach the dust-cloud in his course.
More than maiden, more than wife,
More than gold and next to life

Roushan the Robber loved his horse.

In the land that lies beyond
Erzeroum and Trebizond,

Garden-girt his fortress stood;
Plundered khan, or caravan

Journeying north from Koordistan,

Gave him wealth and wine and food

Seven hundred and fourscore
Men at arms his livery wore,

Did his bidding night and day. Now, through regions all unknown, He was wandering, lost, alone, Seeking without guide his way.

Suddenly the pathway ends,
Sheer the precipice descends,

Loud the torrent roars unseen; Thirty feet from side to side Yawns the chasm; on air must ride He who crosses this ravine.

Following close in his pursuit,
At the precipice's foot"

Reyhan the Arab of Orfah Halted with his hundred men, Shouting upward from the glen, "La Illáh illa Alláh!"

Gently Roushan Beg caressed
Kyrat's forehead, neck, and breast;
Kissed him upon both his eyes;
Sang to him in his wild way,
As upon the topmost spray
Sings a bird before it flies.

"O my Kyrat, O my steed,
Round and slender as a reed,

Carry me this peril through!
Satin housings shall be thine,
Shoes of gold, O Kyrat mine,

O thou soul of Kurroglou!"
"Soft thy skin as silken skein,
Soft as woman's hair thy mane,
Tender are thine eyes and true;
All thy hoofs like ivory shine,
Polished bright; O life of mine,
Leap, and rescue Kurroglou !'

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Kyrat, then, the strong and fleet, Drew together his four white feet, Paused a moment on the verge, Measured with his eye the space, And into the air's embrace

Leaped as leaps the ocean surge.

As the ocean surge o'er sand
Bears a swimmer safe to land,
Kyrat safe his rider bore;
Rattling down the deep abyss

273

274

HAROUN AL RASCHID. - THE THREE KINGS.

Fragments of the precipice

Rolled like pebbles on a shore.

Roushan's tasselled cap of red
Trembled not upon his head,

Careless sat he and upright;
Neither hand nor bridle shook,
Nor his head he turned to look,
As he galloped out of sight.

Flash of harness in the air,
Seen a moment like the glare

Of a sword drawn from its sheath; Thus the phantom horseman passed, And the shadow that he cast

Leaped the cataract underneath.

Reyhan the Arab held his breath
While this vision of life and death
Passed above him. "Allahu!"
Cried he. "In all Koordistan

Lives there not so brave a man
As this Robber Kurroglou !"

HAROUN AL RASCHID.

ONE day, Haroun Al Raschid read
A book wherein the poet said: -

"Where are the kings, and where the rest
Of those who once the world possessed?
"They're gone with all their pomp and show,
They 're gone the way that thou shalt go.

"O thou who choosest for thy share

The world, and what the world calls fair,

"Take all that it can give or lend,

But know that death is at the end!"

Haroun Al Raschid bowed his head: Tears fell upon the page he read.

KING TRISANKU.

VISWAMITRA the Magician,
By his spells and incantations,
Up to Indra's realms elysian
Raised Trisanku, king of nations.

Indra and the gods offended

Hurled him downward, and descending

In the air he hung suspended,

With these equal powers contending.

Thus by aspirations lifted,

By misgivings downward driven, Human hearts are tossed and drifted Midway between earth and heaven.

A WRAITH IN THE MIST.

Ah, no! It is only the Rambler,

The Idler, who lives in Bolt Court, And who says, were he Laird of Inchkenneth, He would wall himself round with a fort.

THE THREE KINGS.

THREE Kings came riding from far away,
Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar ;

Three Wise Men out of the East were they,

And they travelled by night and they slept by day,

For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star.

The star was so beautiful, large, and clear,
That all the other stars of the sky
Became a white mist in the atmosphere,
And by this they knew that the coming was near
Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy.

Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows,
Three caskets of gold with golden keys;
Their robes were of crimson silk with rows
Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows,
Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees.

And so the Three Kings rode into the West,

Through the dusk of night, over hill and dell, And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast, And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest, With the people they met at some wayside well. "Of the child that is born," said Baltasar,

"Good people, I pray you tell us the news; For we in the East have seen his star, And have ridden fast, and have ridden far,

To find and worship the King of the Jews."

And the people answered, "You ask in vain;

We know of no king but Herod the Great!" They thought the Wise Men were men insane, As they spurred their horses across the plain, Like riders in haste, and who cannot wait.

And when they came to Jerusalem,

Herod the Great, who had heard this thing, Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them; And said, "Go down unto Bethlehem,

And bring me tidings of this new king."

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And only a light in the stable burned.

And cradled there in the scented hay,

In the air made sweet by the breath of kine,

SIR, I should build me a fortification, if I came to live The little child in the manger lay,

here." BoSWELL'S Johnson.

On the green little isle of Inchkenneth,
Who is it that walks by the shore,
So gay with his Highland blue bonnet,
So brave with his targe and claymore?

His form is the form of a giant,

But his face wears an aspect of pain; Can this be the Laird of Inchkenneth? Can this be Sir Allan McLean?

The child, that would be king one day Of a kingdom not human, but divine.

His mother, Mary of Nazareth,

Sat watching beside his place of rest, Watching the even flow of his breath, For the joy of life and the terror of death Were mingled together in her breast.

They laid their offerings at his feet:

The gold was their tribute to a King,

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The frankincense, with its odor sweet,
Was for the Priest, the Paraclete,

The myrrh for the body's burying.

And the mother wondered and bowed her head,
And sat as still as a statue of stone;
Her heart was troubled, yet comforted,
Remembering what the Angel had said

Of an endless reign and of David's throne.

Then the Kings rode out of the city gate,
With a clatter of hoofs in proud array;
But they went not back to Herod the Great,
For they knew his malice and feared his hate,
And returned to their homes by another way.

SONG.

STAY, stay at home, my heart, and rest;
Home-keeping hearts are happiest,

For those that wander they know not where
Are full of trouble and full of care;

To stay at home is best.

Weary and homesick and distressed,
They wander east, they wander west,

And are baffled and beaten and blown about
By the winds of the wilderness of doubt;
To stay at home is best.

Then stay at home, my heart, and rest;
The bird is safest in its nest;

O'er all that flutter their wings and fly,
A hawk is hovering in the sky;
To stay at home is best.

THE WHITE CZAR.

THE White Czar is Peter the Great. Batyushka, Father fear, and Gosudar, Sovereign, are titles the Russian people are fond of giving to the Czar in their popular songs.

DOST thou see on the rampart's height
That wreath of mist, in the light
Of the midnight moon? Oh, hist!
It is not a wreath of mist;

It is the Czar, the White Czar,
Batyushka! Gosudar!

He has heard, among the dead,
The artillery roll o'erhead;
The drums and the tramp of feet

Of his soldiery in the street;
He is awake! the White Czar,
Batyushka! Gosudar!

He has heard in the grave the cries
Of his people: "Awake! arise! "
He has rent the gold brocade
Whereof his shroud was made;
He is risen! the White Czar,
Batyushka! Gosudar!

From the Volga and the Don
He has led his armies ou,
Over river and morass,
Over desert and mountain pass;
The Czar, the Orthodox Czar,
Batyushka! Gosudar!

He looks from the mountain-chain
Toward the seas, that cleave in twain
The continents; his hand

Points southward o'er the land
Of Roumili! O Czar,

Batyushka! Gosudar!

And the words break from his lips: "I am the builder of ships,

And my ships shall sail these seas
To the Pillars of Hercules!
I say it; the White Czar,

Batyushka! Gosudar!

"The Bosphorus shall be free;
It shall make room for me;
And the gates of its water-streets
Be unbarred before my fleets.
I say it; the White Czar,
Batyushka! Gosudar!

"And the Christian shall no more
Be crushed, as heretofore,
Beneath thine iron rule,
O Sultan of Istamboul!
I swear it! I the Czar,
Batyushka! Gosudar!"

DELIA.

275

SWEET as the tender fragrance that survives,
When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives,
Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain,
But never will be sung to us again,

Is thy remembrance. Now the hour of rest
Hatli come to thee. Sleep, darling; it is best.

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