Their little game of lansquenet, And another day is with the dead.
Another day, and many a day
And many a week and month depart, When a fatal letter wings its way Across the sea, like a bird of prey,
And strikes and tears the old man's heart. Lo! the young Baron of St. Castine, Swift as the wind is, and as wild, Has married a dusky Tarratine, Has married Madocawando's child!
The letter drops from the father's hand; Though the sinews of his heart are wrung, He utters no cry, he breathes no prayer, No malediction falls from his tongue; But his stately figure, erect and grand, Bends and sinks like a column of sand In the whirlwind of his great despair. Dying, yes, dying! His latest breath Of parley at the door of death Is a blessing on his wayward son. Lower and lower on his breast Sinks his gray head; he is at rest ; No longer he waits for any one.
For many a year the old château Lies tenantless and desolate; Rank grasses in the courtyard grow, About its gables caws the crow; Only the porter at the gate Is left to guard it, and to wait The coming of the rightful heir No other life or sound is there ; No more the Curate comes at night, No more is seen the unsteady light, Threading the alleys of the park; The windows of the hall are dark, The chambers dreary, cold, and bare!
At length, at last, when the winter is past, And birds are building, and woods are green,
With flying skirts is the Curate seen Speeding along the woodland way, Humming gayly, "No day is so long But it comes at last to vesper-song." He stops at the porter's lodge to say That at last the Baron of St. Castine Is coming home with his Indian queen, Is coming without a week's delay; And all the house must be swept and clean, And all things set in good array! And the solemn porter shakes his head;
A cracking of whips, and scamper of feet, Bells are ringing, and horns are blown, And the Baron hath come again to his own. The Curate is waiting in the hall, Most eager and alive of all
To welcome the Baron and Baroness; But his mind is full of vague distress, For he hath read in Jesuit books
Of those children of the wilderness, And now, good, simple man! he looks To see a painted savage stride Into the room, with shoulders bare, And eagle feathers in her hair, And around her a robe of panther's hide.
Instead, he beholds with secret shame A form of beauty undefined, A loveliness without a name, Not of degree, but more of kind; Nor bold nor shy, nor short nor tall, But a new mingling of them all. Yes, beautiful beyond belief, Transfigured and transfused, he sees The lady of the Pyrenees, The daughter of the Indian chief. Beneath the shadow of her hair The gold-bronze color of the skin Seems lighted by a fire within, As when a burst of sunlight shines Beneath a sombre grove of pines, - A dusky splendor in the air.
The two small hands, that now are pressed In his, seem made to be caressed, They lie so warm and soft and still, Like birds half hidden in a nest, Trustful, and innocent of ill. And ah! he cannot believe his ears When her melodious voice he hears Speaking his native Gascon tongue ; The words she utters seem to be Part of some poem of Goudouli, They are not spoken, they are sung! And the Baron smiles, and says, "You see, I told you but the simple truth; Ah, you may trust the eyes of youth!"
Down in the village day by day The people gossip in their way, And stared to see the Baroness pass On Sunday morning to early mass; And when she kneeleth down to pray,
O Gave, that from thy hidden source In yon mysterious mountain-side Pursuest thy wandering way alone, And leaping down its steps of stone, Along the meadow-lands demure Stealest away to the Adour, Pause for a moment in thy course To bless the bridegroom and the bride!
The choir is singing the matin song, The doors of the church are opened wide, The people crowd, and press, and thrung To see the bridegroom and the bride. They enter and pass along the nave; They stand upon the father's grave; The bells are ringing soft and slow; The living above and the dead below Give their blessing on one and twain: The warm wind blows from the his of Spain,
They wonder, and whisper together, and say The birds are building, the leaves are "Surely this is no heathen lass!"
And in course of time they learn to bless The Baron and the Baroness.
And in course of time the Curate learns A secret so dreadful, that by turns He is ice and fire, he freezes and burns. The Baron at confession hath said, That though this woman be his wife, He hath wed her as the Indians wed, He hath bought her for a gun and a knife! And the Curate replies: "O profligate, O Prodigal Son! return once more To the open arms and the open door Of the Church, or ever it be too late. Thank God, thy father did not live To see what he could not forgive; On thee, so reckless and perverse, He left his blessing, not his curse. But the nearer the dawn the darker the night,
And by going wrong all things come right; Things have been mended that were worse, And the worse, the nearer they are to mend.. For the sake of the living and the dead, Thou shalt be wed as Christians wed, And all things come to a happy end."
() sun, that followest the night, In you blue sky, serene and pure, And pourest thine impartial light Alike on mountain and on moor, Pause for a moment in thy course, And bless the bridegroom and the bride!
And Baron Castine of St. Castine Hath come at last to his own again.
“Nunc plaudite!" the Student cried, When he had finished; "now applaad, As Roman actors used to say At the conclusion of a play;" And rose, and spread his hands abroad, And smiling bowed from side to side, As one who bears the palm away.
And generous was the applause and lead, But less for him than for the sun, That even as the tale was done Burst from its canopy of cloud, And lit the landscape with the blaze Of afternoon on autumn days, And filled the room with light, and mate The fire of logs a painted shade.
A sudden wind from out the west
¦ Blew all its trumpets loud and shrill; The windows rattled with the biast, The oak-trees shouted as it passed, And straight, as if by fear possessed, The cloud encampment on the hill Broke up, and fluttering flag and tent Vanished into the firmament, And down the valley tied amain The rear of the retreating rain.
Only far up in the blue sky
A mass of clouds, like drifted snow Suffused with a faint Alpine glow, Was heaped together, vast and high, On which a shattered rainbow hung, Not rising like the ruined arch Of some aerial aqueduct,
But like a roseate garland plucked From an Olympian god, and flung Aside in his triumphal march.
Like prisoners from their dungeon gloom, Like birds escaping from a snare, Like school-boys at the hour of play, All left at once the pent-up room, And rushed into the open air; And no more tales were told that day.
THE evening came; the golden vane A moment in the sunset glanced, Then darkened, and then gleamed again, As from the east the moon advanced And touched it with a softer light; While underneath, with flowing mane, Upon the sign the Red Horse pranced, And galloped forth into the night.
But brighter than the afternoon That followed the dark day of rain, And brighter than the golden vane That glistened in the rising moon, Within, the ruddy fire-light gleamed; And every separate window-pane, Backed by the outer darkness, showed A mirror, where the flamelets gleamed And flickered to and fro, and seemed A bonfire lighted in the road.
Amid the hospitable glow, Like an old actor on the stage, With the uncertain voice of age, The singing chimney chanted low The homely songs of long ago.
The voice that Ossian heard of yore, When midnight winds were in his hall; A ghostly and appealing call, A sound of days that are no more! And dark as Ossian sat the Jew, And listened to the sound, and knew
"Therefore the Manichæan said This simple prayer on breaking bread, Lest he with hasty hand or knife Might wound the incarcerated life, The soul in things that we call dead: 'I did not reap thee, did not bind thee, I did not thrash thee, did not grind thee, Nor did I in the oven bake thee! It was not I, it was another Did these things unto thee, O brother; I only have thee, hold thee, break thee!'"
"That birds have souls I can concede," The Poet cried, with glowing cheeks; "The flocks that from their beds of reed Uprising north or southward fly, And flying write upon the sky The biforked letter of the Greeks, As hath been said by Rucellai ; All birds that sing or chirp or cry, Even those migratory bands, The minor poets of the air, The plover, peep, and sanderling, That hardly can be said to sing, But pipe along the barren sands, -
All these have souls akin to ours; So hath the lovely race of flowers: Thus much I grant, but nothing more. The rusty hinges of a door
Are not alive because they creak; This chimney, with its dreary roar, These rattling windows, do not speak!" "To me they speak," the Jew replied; "And in the sounds that sink and soar, I hear the voices of a tide
That breaks upon an unknown shore !"
Here the Sicilian interfered:
"That was your dream, then, as you dozed A moment since, with eyes half-closed, And murmured something in your beard." The Hebrew smiled, and answered, “Nay ; Not that, but something very near ; Like, and yet not the same, may seem The vision of my waking dream; Before it wholly dies away, Listen to me, and you shall hear.”
KING SOLOMON, before his palace gate At evening, on the pavement tessellate Was walking with a stranger from the East,
Arrayed in rich attire as for a feast, The mighty Runjeet-Sing, a learned man, And Rajah of the realms of Hindostan. And as they walked the guest became
Of a white figure in the twilight air, Gazing intent, as one who with surprise His form and features seemed to recog-
And in a whisper to the king he said : "What is yon shape, that, pallid as the dead,
Is watching me, as if he sought to trace In the dim light the features of my face?"
The king looked, and replied: "I know him well;
It is the Angel men call Azrael,
'Tis the Death Angel; what hast thou to fear?"
And the guest answered: "Lest he should
"O EDREHI, forbear to-night Your ghostly legends of affright, And let the Talmud rest in peace; Spare us your dismal tales of death That almost take away one's breath; So doing, may your tribe increase."
Thus the Sicilian said; then went And on the spinet's rattling keys Played Marianina, like a breeze From Naples and the Southern seas, That brings us the delicious scent Of citron and of orange trees, And memories of soft days of ease At Capri and Amalfi spent.
"Not so," the eager Poet said; "At least, not so before I tell The story of my Azrael, An angel mortal as ourselves, Which in an ancient tome I found
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