The Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Recent Poems.

THE WHITE CZAR.

Dost thou see on the rampart's height
That wreath of mist, in the light
Of the midnight moon? O, 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 on,
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 Roumele! 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!”

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.

The White Czar is Peter the Great.

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.

Batyushka (Father dear), and Gosudar (Sovereign), are titles the Russian people are fond of giving to the Czar in their popular songs.

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 il Allah-Allah-la!"

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 thine hoofs like ivory shine, |Polished bright; O, life of mine,

Leap, and rescue 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 silt and sand Bears a swimmer safe to land,

Kyrat safe his rider bore; Rattling down the deep abyss 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,

But know that death is at the end!" "Take all that it can give or lend,

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.

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 hills and dells, And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast, And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest, With the people they met at the wayside wells. "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 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."

So they rode away; and the star stood still,
The only one in the gray of morn;

Yes, it stopped, it stood still of its own free will,
Right over Bethlehem on the hill,

The city of David where Christ was born.

And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard,
Through the silent street, till their horses turned
And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard;
But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred,
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,

The little child in the manger lay,

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 odour 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.

VOX POPULI.

WHEN Marzaran, the magician,
Journeyed westward through Cathay,

Nothing heard he but the praises

Of Badoura on his way.

But the lessening rumour ended
When he came to Khaledan;
There the folks were talking only
Of Prince Camaralzaman.
So it happens with the poets,
Every province hath its own;
Camaralzaman is famous
Where Badoura is unknown.

WAPENTAKE.

To ALFRED TENNYSON.

POET! I come to touch thy lance with mine;
Not as a knight who on the listed field
Of tourney touched his adversary's shield
In token of defiance, but in sign

Of homage to the mastery, which is thine,
In English song; nor will I keep concealed,
And voiceless as a rivulet frost-congealed,
My admiration for thy verse divine.

Not of the howling dervishes of song,

Who craze the brain with their delirious dance. Art thou, O sweet historian of the heart! Therefore to thee the laurel-leaves belong, To thee our love and our allegiance, For thy allegiance to the poet's art.

THE BROKEN OAR.

ONCE upon Iceland's solitary strand

A poet wandered with his book and pen, Seeking some final word, some sweet Amen, Wherewith to close the volume in his hand.' The billows rolled and plunged upon the sand, The circling sea-gulls swept beyond his ken, And from the parting cloud-rack now and then Flashed the red sunset over sea and land. Then by the billows at his feet was tossed

A broken oar; and carved thereon he read, "Oft was I weary, when I toiled at thee ”; And like a man who findeth what was lost, He wrote the words, then lifted up his head, And flung his useless pen into the sea.

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