To him are towers on the Spanish coast, 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 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 CASTLES IN SPAIN. How much of my young heart, O Spain, And shapes more shadowy than these, It was these memories perchance, Old towns, whose history lies hid The wars of Wamba's time; The long, straight line of the highway, White crosses in the mountain pass, 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 And closer locked and barred her breast. She knew the life-long martyrdom, The shadows of the chestnut-trees, The song of birds, and, more than these, 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, 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, By their fires the Sioux Chiefs 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 In his war paint and his beads, In ambush the Sitting Bull Into the fatal snare The White Chief with yellow hair The sudden darkness of death They lay in their bloody attire. But the foemen fled in the night, As a ghastly trophy, bore 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! See and salute thee on thy way, The valley of Chevreuse in vain And hurriest on with swifter pace. Thou wilt not stay; with restless feet 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 Stood Duke Alva and his train. Like a print in books of fables, With its pointed roofs and gables, Through its squares and streets and alleys As a routed army rallies, Or as rivers run through valleys, A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET. -THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG. "Nest of Lutheran misbelievers!" Cried Duke Alva as he gazed; On the Emperor's cap the feather A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET. OCTOBER, 1746. MR. THOMAS PRINCE loquitur. A FLEET with flags arrayed Sailed from the port of Brest, Had sworn by cross and crown There were rumors in the street, And the danger hovering near. "O Lord! we would not advise; A tempest should arise To drive the French Fleet hence, Or sink it in the sea, We should be satisfied, This was the prayer I made, For my soul was all on flame, The answering tempest came; Shaking the windows and walls, 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, When thou didst walk in wrath With thine horses through the sea! THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG. MOUNTED on Kyrat strong and fleet, Up the mountain pathway flew. Such was Kyrat's wondrous speed, Reach the dust-cloud in his course. Roushan the Robber loved his horse. In the land that lies beyond Garden-girt his fortress stood; Journeying north from Koordistan, Gave him wealth and wine and food Seven hundred and fourscore 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, 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, Reyhan the Arab of Orfah Halted with his hundred men, Shouting upward from the glen, "La Illáh illa Alláh!" Gently Roushan Beg caressed "O my Kyrat, O my steed, Carry me this peril through! O thou soul of Kurroglou!" 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 273 274 HAROUN AL RASCHID. - THE THREE KINGS. Fragments of the precipice Rolled like pebbles on a shore. Roushan's tasselled cap of red Careless sat he and upright; Flash of harness in the air, 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 Lives there not so brave a man HAROUN AL RASCHID. ONE day, Haroun Al Raschid read "Where are the kings, and where the rest "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, 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, 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, Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows, 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." 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, 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, The frankincense, with its odor sweet, The myrrh for the body's burying. And the mother wondered and bowed her head, Of an endless reign and of David's throne. Then the Kings rode out of the city gate, SONG. STAY, stay at home, my heart, and rest; For those that wander they know not where To stay at home is best. Weary and homesick and distressed, And are baffled and beaten and blown about Then stay at home, my heart, and rest; O'er all that flutter their wings and fly, 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 It is the Czar, the White Czar, He has heard, among the dead, Of his soldiery in the street; He has heard in the grave the cries From the Volga and the Don He looks from the mountain-chain Points southward o'er the land Batyushka! Gosudar! And the words break from his lips: "I am the builder of ships, And my ships shall sail these seas Batyushka! Gosudar! "The Bosphorus shall be free; "And the Christian shall no more DELIA. 275 SWEET as the tender fragrance that survives, Is thy remembrance. Now the hour of rest |