No More Learning

true. »
"It saved me from ennui," he answered, yawning. "Alas! I
already feel it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long
effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence. These little.
problems help me to do so. "
"And you are a benefactor of the race," said I.
He shrugged his shoulders.
some little use," he remarked.
c'est tout,' as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand. "
THE BOWMEN'S SONG
From The White Company'
"Well, perhaps after all it is of
"L'homme c'est rien-l'œuvre
HAT of the bow?
The bow was made in England:
Of true wood, of yew wood,
The wood of English bows;
So men who are free
WHA
―――
Love the old yew-tree
And the land where the yew-tree grows.
What of the cord?
The cord was made in England:
A rough cord, a tough cord,
A cord that bowmen love;


## p. 4839 (#637) ###########################################

A. CONAN DOYLE
4839
So we'll drain our jacks
To the English flax
And the land where the hemp was wove.
What of the shaft?
The shaft was cut in England:
A long shaft, a strong shaft,
Barbed and trim and true;
So we'll drink all together
To the gray goose feather,
And the land where the gray goose flew.
What of the men?
The men were bred in England:
The bowman - the yeoman -
The lads of dale and fell.
Here's to you-and to you!
To the hearts that are true
And the land where the true hearts dwell.
Reprinted by permission of the American Publishers' Corporation, Publishers.


## p. 4840 (#638) ###########################################

4840
HOLGER DRACHMANN
(1846-)
OLGER DRACHMANN, born in Copenhagen October 9th, 1846,
belongs to the writers characterized by Georg Brandes as
"the men of the new era. "
Danish literature had stood high during the first half of the nine-
teenth century. In 1850 Oehlenschläger died. In 1870 there was prac-
tically no Danish literature. The reason for this may have been that
after the new political life of 1848-9 and the granting of the Danish
Constitution, politics absorbed all young talent, and men of literary
tastes put themselves at the service of the
daily press.
(
In 1872 Georg Brandes gave his lectures
on Main Currents in the Literature of the
Nineteenth Century' at the University of
Copenhagen. That same year Drachmann
published his first collection of Poems,'
and so began his extraordinary productivity
of poems, dramas, and novels. Of these, his
lyric poems are undoubtedly of the greatest
value. His is a distinctly lyric tempera-
ment. The new school had chosen for its
guide Brandes's teaching that "Literature,
to be of significance, should discuss prob-
lems. " In view of this fact it is somewhat

HOLGER DRACHMANN
hard to understand why Drachmann should be called a man of the
new era. He never discusses problems. He always gives himself up
unreservedly to the subject which at that special moment claims his
sympathy. Taken as a whole, therefore, his writings present a cer-
tain inconsistency. He has shown himself alternately as socialist and
royalist, realist and romanticist, freethinker and believer, cosmopoli-
tan and national, according to the lyric enthusiasm of the moment.
Independent of these changes, the one thing to be admired and
enjoyed is his lyric feeling and the often exquisite form in which
he presents it. His larger compositions, novels, and dramas do not
show the same power over his subject.
If Drachmann discusses any problem, it is the problem Drachmann.
He does this sometimes with what Brandes calls "a light and joking
self-irony," in a most sympathetic way. Brandes quotes one of Drach-


## p. 4841 (#639) ###########################################

HOLGER DRACHMANN
4841
mann's early stories, where it is said of the hero:-"His name was
really Palnatoke Olsen; a continually repeated discord of two tones,
as he used to say. " Olsen is one of the most commonplace Danish
names. Palnatoke is the name of one of the fiercest warriors of
heathen antiquity, who, like a veritable Valhalla god, dared to oppose
the terrible Danish king Harald Blaatand. When Olsen's parents
gave him this name they unwittingly described their son, "forever
drawn by two poles: one the plain Olsen, the other the hot-headed
fiery Viking. " With this in mind, and considering Drachmann's liter-
ary works as a whole, one is irresistibly reminded of his friend and
contemporary in Norway, Björnsterne Björnson. There is this differ-
ence between them, however, that if the irony of Palnatoke Olsen
may be applied to both, one might for Drachmann use the abbrevi-
ation P. Olsen and for Björnson undoubtedly Palnatoke O.
It might be said of Drachmann, as Sauer said of the Italian poet
Monti: — "Like a master in the art of appreciation, he knew how to
give himself up to great time-stirring ideas; somewhat as a gifted
actor throws himself into his part, with the full strength of his art,
with an enthusiasm carrying all before it, and in the most expressive
way; then when the part is played, lays it quietly aside and takes
hold of something else. "
When a young man, Drachmann studied at the Academy of Arts in
Copenhagen, and met with considerable success as a marine painter.
His love for the Northern seas shows itself in his poetry and prose,
and his descriptions of the sea and the life of the sailor and fisher-
man are of the truest and best yielded by his pen. He is the author
of no less than forty-six volumes of poems, dramas, novels, short
stories, and sketches, and of two unpublished dramas. His most im-
portant work is 'Forskrevet' (Condemned), which is largely autobio-
graphical; his most attractive though not his strongest production is
the opera 'Der Var Engang' (Once Upon a Time), founded on
Andersen's 'The Swineherd,' with music by Sange Müller; his best
poems and tales are those dealing with the sea.
At present he lives in Hamburg, where on October 10th, 1896, he
celebrated his fiftieth birthday and his twenty-fifth "Author-Jubilee,"
as the Danes call it. Among the features of the celebration were
the sending of an enormous number of telegrams from Drachmann's
admirers in Europe and America, and the performance of two of his
plays, one at the Royal Theatre in Copenhagen, the other at the
Stadt Theatre in Altona.


## p. 4842 (#640) ###########################################

4842
HOLGER DRACHMANN
THE SKIPPER AND HIS SHIP
From Paul and Virginia of a Northern Zone': copyright 1895, by Way and
Williams, Chicago
THE
HE Anna Dorothea, in the North Sea, was pounding along
under shortened sail. The weather was thick, the air dense;
there was a falling barometer.
It had been a short trip this time. Leroy and Sons, wine
merchants of Havre, had made better offers than the old houses
in Bordeaux. At each one of his later trips, Captain Spang had
Isaid it should be his last.
<<
He would lay up" at home; he was
growing too stout and clumsy for the sea, and now he must
trust fully to Tönnes, his first mate. The captain's big broad
face was flushed as usual; he always looked as if he were illumi-
nated by a setting October sun; there was no change here-
rather, the sunset tint was stronger. But Tönnes noted how the
features, which he knew best in moments of simple good-nature
and of sullen tumult, had gradually relaxed. He thought that it
would indeed soon be time for his old skipper to "lay up"; yet
perhaps a few trips might still be made.
"Holloa, Tönnes! let her go about before the next squall
strikes her. She lies too dead on this bow. "
The skipper had raised his head above the cabin stairs. As
usual, he was in his shirt-sleeves, and his scanty hair fluttered in
the wind. When he had warned his mate, he again disappeared
in the cabin.
Tönnes gave the order to the man at the helm, and hurried
to help at the main-braces. The double-reefed main-topsail swung
about, the Anna Dorothea caught the wind somewhat sluggishly,
and not without getting considerable water over her; then fol-
lowed the fore-topsail, the reefed foresail, and the trysail. When
the tacking was finished and the sails had again caught the
wind, the trysail was torn from the boltropes with a loud crack.
The captain's head appeared again.
"We must close-reef! " said he.
The last reef was taken in; the storm came down and lashed
the sea; the sky grew more and more threatening; the waves
dashed over the deck at each plunge of the old bark in the sea.
The old vessel, which had carried her captain for a generation,
lay heavily on the water-Tönnes thought too heavily.


## p. 4843 (#641) ###########################################

HOLGER DRACHMANN
4843
The second mate—the same who had played the accordion at
the inn came over to Tönnes.
―――――
"It was wrong to stow the china-clay at the bottom and the
casks on top; she lies horribly dead, and I'm afraid we shall have
to use the pumps. "
"Yes, I said so to the old man, but he would have it that
way," answered Tönnes. "We shall have a wet night. "
"We shall, surely," said the second mate.
Tönnes crawled up to the helm and looked at the compass.
Two men were at the helm-lashed fast. Tönnes looked up
into the rigging and out to windward; then suddenly he cried,
with the full force of his lungs:-
"Look out for breakers! "
Tönnes himself helped at the wheel; but the vessel only half
answered the helm. The greater portion of the sea struck the
bow, the quarter, and the bulwarks and stanchions amidship, so
that they creaked and groaned. One of the men at the helm had
grasped Tönnes, who would otherwise have been swept into the
lee scupper. When the ship had righted from the terrible blow,
the captain stood on the deck in his oilcloth suit.
―――――――
"Are any men missing? " cried he, through the howling of
the wind and the roaring of the water streaming fore and aft,
unable to escape quickly enough through the scuppers.
The storm raged with undiminished fury. The crew-and
amongst them Prussian, who had been promoted to be ship's-dog
-by-and-by dived forward through the seething salt water and
the fragments of wreck that covered the deck.
Now it was that the second mate was missing.
The captain looked at Tönnes, and then out on the wild sea.
He scarcely glanced at the crushed long-boat; even if a boat
could have been launched, it would have been too late. Tönnes
and his skipper were fearless men, who took things as they were.
If any help could have been given, they would have given it.
But their eyes sought vainly for any dark speck amidst the
foaming waves-and it was necessary to care for themselves,
the vessel and the crew.
"God save his soul! " murmured Captain Spang.
Tönnes passed his hand across his brow, and went to his duty.
Evening set in; the wind increased rather than decreased.
"She is taking in water," said the captain, who had sounded
the pumps.


## p. 4844 (#642) ###########################################

4844
HOLGER DRACHMANN
Tönnes assented.
"We must change her course," said the captain.
pitches too heavily in this sea. "
The bark was held up to the wind as closely as possible.
The pumps were worked steadily, but often got out of order on
account of the china-clay, which mixed with the water down in
the hold.
« She
It was plain that the vessel grew heavier and heavier; her
movements in climbing a wave were more and more dead.
During the night a cry arose: again one of the crew was
washed overboard.
It was a long night and a wet one, as Tönnes had predicted.
Several times the skipper dived down into the cabin - Tönnes
knew perfectly well what for, but he said nothing. Few words
were spoken on board the Anna Dorothea that night.
In the morning the captain, returning from one of his excur-
sions down below, declared that the cabin was half full of water.
"We must watch for a sail," he said, abruptly and somewhat
huskily.
Tönnes passed the word round amongst the crew.
One might
read on their faces that they were prepared for this, and that
they had ceased to hope, although they had not stopped work at
the pumps.
The whole of the weather bulwark, the cook's cabin and the
long-boat, were crushed or washed away; the water could be
heard below the hatches. While keeping a sharp lookout for
sails, many an eye glanced at the yawl as the last resort. But
on board Captain Spang's vessel the words were not yet spoken
which carried with them the doom of the ship: "We are sinking! "
In the gray-white of the dawn a signal was to be hoisted; the
bunting was tied together at the middle and raised half-mast high.
Both the captain and Tönnes had lashed themselves aft; for
now the bark was but little better than a wreck, over which the
billows broke incessantly, as the vessel, reeling like a drunken
man, exposed herself to the violent attacks of the sea instead of
parrying them.
"A sail to windward, captain! " cried Tönnes.
Captain Spang only nodded.
"She holds her course! " cried one of the crew excitedly.
"No," said Tönnes, quietly. "She has seen us, and is bear-
ing down upon us! "


## p. 4845 (#643) ###########################################

HOLGER DRACHMANN
4845
The captain again nodded.
"Tis a brig! " cried one of the crew.
"A schooner-brig! " Tönnes corrected.
finely. I am sure she is a fruit-trader. "
At last the strange vessel was so near that they could see her
deck each time she was thrown upon her side in the violent
seething sea.
"Yes, 'tis the schooner-brig! " exclaimed Tönnes.
remember, captain, the time when -"
——
"She carries her sails
"Do you
Again Captain Spang nodded. He acted strangely. Tönnes
looked sharply at him, and shook his head.
Now Tönnes hailed the vessel:
"Help us! We are sinking! "
At this moment two or three of the bark's crew rushed toward
the yawl, although Tönnes warned them back.
Captain Spang seemed changed. Evidently some opposing
feelings contended within him. Seeing the insubordination of the
men, he only shrugged his shoulders, and let Tönnes take full
charge.
The men
were in the yawl, still hanging under the iron
davits. Now they cut the ropes; the yawl touched the water.
The crew of the other vessel gestured warningly; but it was too
late. A sea seized the yawl with its small crew, and the next
moment crushed it against the main chains of the bark. Their
shipmates raised a cry, and rushed to help them; but help was
impossible. Boat and crew had disappeared.
"Didn't I say so? " cried Tönnes, with flaming eyes.
Over there in the schooner-brig all was activity. From the
Anna Dorothea they could plainly see how the captain gave his
orders. He manoeuvred his vessel like a true sailor. To board
the wreck in such a sea would be madness. Therefore they
unreeved two long lines and attached them to the long-boat, one
on each side. Then they laid breeching under the boat, and
hauled it up amidships by means of tackle. Taking advantage
of a moment when their vessel was athwart the seas, they un-
loosed the tackle, and the boat swung out over the side; then
they cut the breeching, the boat fell on the water aft, and now
both lines were eased off quickly; while the brig caught the
wind, the boat drifted toward the stern-sheets of the bark.
Tönnes was ready with a boat-hook, and connections were
quickly made between the boat and the wreck.


## p. 4846 (#644) ###########################################

4846
HOLGER DRACHMANN
"Quick now! " cried Tönnes. "Every man in the boat. No
one takes his clothes with him! We may be thankful if we save
our lives. "
The men were quickly over the stern-sheets and down in the
boat. Prussian whined, and kept close to Captain Spang, who
had not moved one step on the deck.
"Come, captain! " cried Tönnes, taking the skipper by the
arm.
"What's the matter? " asked the old man angrily.
Tönnes looked at him. Prussian barked.
"We must get into the boat, captain. The vessel may sink
at any moment. Come! »
The captain pressed his sou'wester down over his forehead,
and glanced around his deck.
The men in the boat cried out to them to come.
"Well! " said Captain Spang, but with an air so absent-
minded and a bearing so irresolute that Tönnes at last took a
firm hold on him.
Prussian showed his teeth at his former master.
"You go first! " exclaimed Tönnes, snatching the dog and
throwing him down to the men, who were having hard work to
keep the boat from wrecking.
When the dog was no longer on the deck, it seemed as if
Captain Spang's resistance was broken. Tönnes did not let go
his hold on him; but the young mate had to use almost super-
human strength to get the heavy old man down over the vessel's
side and placed on a seat in the boat.
As soon as they had observed from the brig that this had
been done, they hauled in both lines. The boat moved back
again; but it was a dangerous voyage, and all were obliged to
lash themselves fast to the thwarts with ropes placed there for
that purpose.
Captain Spang was like a child. Tönnes had to lash him to
the seat. The old man sat with his face hidden in his hands,
his back turned toward his ship, inactive, and seemingly uncon-
scious of what took place around him.
At last, when after a hard struggle all were on the deck of
the schooner-brig, her captain came forward, placed his hand on
his old friend's shoulder, and said:-
"It is the second time, you see! Well, we all cling to life,
and the vessel over there is pretty old. ”
-


## p. 4847 (#645) ###########################################

HOLGER DRACHMANN
4847
Captain Spang started. He scarcely returned his friend's
hand-shaking.
"My vessel, I say! My papers! All that I have is in the
vessel. I must go aboard, do you hear? I must go aboard.
How could I forget? "
The other skipper and Tönnes looked at each other.
Captain Spang wrung his hands and stamped on the deck, his
eyes fixed on his sinking vessel. She was still afloat; what did
he care for the gale and the heavy sea? He belonged to the old
school of skippers; he was bound to his vessel by ties longer
than any life-line, heavier than any hawser; he had left his ship
in a bewildered state, and had taken nothing with him that
might serve to prove what he possessed and how long he had
possessed it. His good old vessel was still floating on the water.
He must, he would go there; if nobody would go with him, he
would go alone.
All remonstrances were in vain.
Tönnes pressed the other skipper's hand.
"There is nothing else to be done. I know him," said he.
"So do I," was the answer.
Captain Spang and his mate were again in the boat. As they
were on the point of starting, a loud whine and violent barking
sounded from the deck, and Prussian showed his one eye over
the railing.
"Stay where you are! " cried Tönnes. "We shall be back
soon. "
But the dog did not understand him. Perhaps he had his
doubts; no one can say. He sprang overboard; Tönnes seized
him by the ear, and hauled him into the boat.
And then the two men and the dog ventured back to the
abandoned vessel.
This time the old man climbed on board without assistance.
Prussian whined in the boat.
"Throw that dog up to me! " cried the master.
Tönnes did so.
"Shall I come up and help you? " he called out.
"No, I can find my own way. "
"But hurry, captain! do you understand? " said Tönnes, who
anxiously noticed that the motions of the vessel were becoming
more and more dangerous, while he needed all his strength to
keep the boat clear of the wreck.


## p. 4848 (#646) ###########################################

4848
HOLGER DRACHMANN
An answer came from the bark, but he could not catch it.
In this moment Tönnes recalled the day when he rowed the
captain out on the bay to the brig. His next thought was of
Nanna. Oh, if she knew where they were!
And at this thought the mate's breast was filled with conflict-
ing emotions. The dear blessed girl! - Oh, if her father would
only come!
"Captain! " cried Tönnes; "Captain Spang! for God's sake,
come! Leave those papers alone. The vessel is sinking. We
may at any moment-
>>
He paused.
The captain stood at the stern-sheets. At his side was Prus-
sian, squinting down into the boat. There was an entirely
strange expression in Andreas Spang's face; a double expression
- one moment hard and defiant, the next almost solemn.
The sou'wester had fallen from his old head.
His scanty
hairs fluttered in the wind. He held in his hand a parcel of
papers and a coil of rope. He pointed toward the brig.
There! " he cried, throwing the package and the rope down.
to Tönnes. "Give the skipper this new line for his trouble.
He has used plenty of rope for us. You go back. I stay here.
Give-my-love-to the girl at home. - You and she - You
two- God bless you! "
"Captain! " cried Tönnes in affright; "you are sick; come,
let me ->
-
He prepared to climb on board.
Captain Spang lifted his hand threateningly, and Prussian
barked furiously.
"Stay down there, boy, I say! The vessel and I, we belong
together. You shall take care of the girl. Good-by! "
The Anna Dorothea rolled heavily over on one side, righted
again, and then began to plunge her head downwards, like a
whale that, tired of the surface, seeks rest at the bottom. The
crew of the brig hauled in the lines of the boat. Tossed on the
turbid sea, Tönnes saw his old skipper leaning against the helm,
the dog at his side. His gray hairs fluttered in the wind as
if they wafted a last farewell; and down with vessel and dog
went the old skipper-down into the wild sea that so long had
borne him on its waves.


## p. 4849 (#647) ###########################################

HOLGER DRACHMANN
4849
THE PRINCE'S SONG
From Once Upon a Time>
PR
RINCESS, I come from out a land that lieth-
I know not in what arctic latitude:
Though high in the bleak north, it never sigheth
For sunny smiles; they wait not to be wooed.
Our privilege we know: the bright half-year
Illumines sea and shore with sunlit glory;
In twilight then our fertile fields we ear,
And round our brows we twine a wreath of story.
When winter decks with frost the bearded oak,
In songs and sagas we our youth recover;
Around the hearthstone crowd the listening folk,
While on the wall mysterious shadows hover.
The summer night, suffused with loving glow,
The future, dawning in a golden chalice,
Enkindles hope in hearts of high and low,
From peasant's cottage to the royal palace.
The snow of winter spreads o'er hill and valley
Its soft and silken blue-white veil of sleep;
The springtime bids the green-clad earth to rally,
When through the budding leaves the sunbeams peep.
The autumn brings fresh breezes from the ocean
And paints the lad's fair cheeks a rosy red;
The maiden's heart is stirred with new emotion,
When summer's fragrance o'er the world is spread.
To roam in our fair land is like a dream,
Through these still woods, renowned in ancient story,
Along the shores, deep-mirrored in the gleam
Of fjords that shine beneath the sky's blue glory.
Upon the meadows where the flowers bloom
The elfin maidens hide themselves in slumbers,
But soon along the lakes where shadows gloom
In every bosky nook they'll dance their numbers.
VIII-304
There are no frowning crags on our green mountains,
No dark, forbidding cliffs where gorges yawn;
The streams flow gently seaward from their fountains,
As through the silent valley steals the dawn.


## p. 4850 (#648) ###########################################

4850
HOLGER DRACHMANN
Here nature smoothes the rugged, tames the savage,
And men born here in victory are kind,
Forbearing still the foeman's land to ravage,
And in defeat they bear a steadfast mind.
I'm proud of land, of kindred, and of nation,
I'm proud my home is where the waters flow;
Afar I see in golden radiation
My native land like sun through amber glow.
Its warmth revives my heart, however lonely:
Forgive me, Princess, if my soul's aflame,—
But rather be at home, a beggar only,
Than, exiled thence, have universal fame.
Translation of Charles Harvey Genung.


## p. 4851 (#649) ###########################################

4851
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
(1795-1820)
CONSPICUOUS among the young poets, essayists, and journalists,
who made up literary New York in the early part of the
century, was Joseph Rodman Drake, the friend of Halleck,
and the best beloved perhaps of all that brilliant group. Hardly
known to this generation save by The Culprit Fay' and 'The Amer-
ican Flag,' Drake was essentially a true poet and a man of letters.
His work was characteristic of his day. He had a certain amount of
classical knowledge, a certain eighteenth-century grace and style, yet
withal, an instinctive Americanism which
flowered out into our first true national
literature. The group of writers among
whom were found Irving, Halleck, Wil-
lis, Dana, Hoffman, Verplanck, Brockden
Brown, and a score of others, reflected
that age in which they sought their lit-
erary models. With the exception of Poe,
who belonged to a somewhat later time
and whose genius was purely subjective,
much of the production of these Americans
followed the lines of their English prede-
cessors,-Johnson, Goldsmith, Addison, and

Steele. It is only in their deeper moments JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
of thought and feeling that there sounds
that note of love of country, of genuine Americanism, which gives
their work individuality, and which will keep their memory green.
Drake was born in New York, in August 1795. He was descended
from the same family as the great admiral of Elizabethan days, the
American branch of which had served their country honorably both
in colonial and Revolutionary times. The scenes of his boyhood
were the same as those that formed the environment of Irving,
memories of which are scattered thick through the literature of the
day. New York was still a picturesque, hospitable, rural capital, the
centre of the present town being miles distant in the country. The
best families were all intimately associated in a social life that was
cultivated and refined at the same time that it was gay and uncon-
ventional; and in this society Drake occupied a place which his lov-
able qualities and fine talents must have won, even had it been


## p. 4852 (#650) ###########################################

4852
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
denied him by birth.
He was a precocious boy, for whom a career
was anticipated by his friends while he was yet a mere child; and
when he met Halleck, in his eighteenth year, he had already won
some reputation.
The friendship of Drake and Halleck was destined to prove infi-
nitely valuable to both. A discussion between Cooper, Halleck, and
Drake, upon the poetic inspiration of American scenery, prompted
Drake to write The Culprit Fay'-a poem without any human
character. This he completed in three days, and offered it as the
argument on his side. The scene of the poem is laid in the High-
lands of the Hudson, but Drake added many pictures suggested by
memories of Long Island Sound, whose waters he haunted with boat
and rod. He apologized for this by saying that the purposes of poetry
alone could explain the presence so far up the Hudson of so many
salt-water emigrants. The Culprit Fay' is a creation of pure fancy,
full of delicate imagery, and handled with an ethereal lightness of
touch. Its exquisite grace, its delicate coloring, its prodigality of
charm, explain its immediate popularity and its lasting fame. But
the Rip Van Winkle legend is a far more genuine product of fancy.
Drake's few shorter lyrics throb with genuine poetic feeling, and
show the loss sustained by literature in the author's early death.
Best known of these is 'The American Flag,' which appeared in the
Evening Post as one of a series of jeux d'esprit, the joint productions
of Halleck and Drake, who either alternated in the composition of
the numbers or wrote them together. The last four lines only of
'The American Flag' are Halleck's. The entire series appeared be-
tween March and July, 1819, under the signature of "The Croakers. ”
Literary New York was mystified as to the authorship of these skits,
which hit off the popular fads, follies, and enthusiasms of the day
with so easy and graceful a touch. Politics, music, the drama, and
domestic life alike furnished inspiration for the numbers; some of
whose titles, as 'A Sketch of a Debate in Tammany' and 'The
Battery War,' suggest the local political issues of the present day.
There is now in existence a handsome edition of these verses, with
the names of the authors of the several pieces appended, and in the
case of the joint ownership with the initials D. and H. subscribed.
Drake's complete poems were not published during his lifetime.
Sixteen years after his death by consumption in his twenty-sixth
year, his daughter issued a volume dedicated to Halleck, in which
were included the best specimens of her father's work. Many of the
lesser known verses indicate his true place as a poet. In the touch-
ing poem 'Abelard to Eloise,' in the third stanza of The American
Flag,' and in innumerable beautiful lines scattered throughout his
work, appears a genuine inspiration.


## p. 4853 (#651) ###########################################

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
4853
In his own day, Drake filled a place which his death left forever
vacant. His rare and winning personality, his generous friendships,
his joy in life, and his courage in the contemplation of his inevitable
fate, still appeal to a generation to whom they are but traditions.
The exquisite monody in which Halleck celebrated his loss, links their
names and decorates their friendship with imperishable garlands.
A WINTER'S TALE
From The Croakers'
"A merry heart goes all the way,
A sad one tires in a mile-a. »
-WINTER'S TALE.
-
HE man who frets at worldly strife
THE Grows sallow, sour, and thin;
Give us the lad whose happy life
Is one perpetual grin:
He, Midas-like, turns all to gold;
He smiles when others sigh;
Enjoys alike the hot and cold,
And laughs through wet and dry.
There's fun in everything we meet;
The greatest, worst, and best
Existence is a merry treat,
And every speech a jest:
Be 't ours to watch the crowds that pass
Where mirth's gay banner waves;
To show fools through a quizzing glass,
And bastinade the knaves.
The serious world will scold and ban,
In clamor loud and hard,
To hear Meigs* called a Congressman,
And Paulding called a bard:
But come what may, the man's in luck
Who turns it all to glee,
And laughing, cries with honest Puck,
"Good Lord! what fools ye be! "
*Henry Meigs of New York, a Congressman from 1819 to 1821 in the
Sixteenth Congress.


## p. 4854 (#652) ###########################################

4854
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
THE CULPRIT FAY
My visual orbs are purged from film, and lo!
Instead of Anster's turnip-bearing vales,
I see old Fairyland's miraculous show!
Her trees of tinsel kissed by freakish gales,
Her ouphs that, cloaked in leaf-gold, skim the breeze,
And fairies, swarming.
TENNANT'S ANSTER FAIR'
'T'S
Is the middle watch of a summer's night-
The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright;
Naught is seen in the vault on high
But the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky,
And the flood which rolls its milky hue,
A river of light on the welkin blue.
The moon looks down on old Cronest;
She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast,
And seems his huge gray form to throw
In a silver cone on the wave below;
His sides are broken by spots of shade,
By the walnut bough and the cedar made,
And through their clustering branches dark
Glimmers and dies the firefly's spark —
Like starry twinkles that momently break
Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's rack.
The stars are on the moving stream,
And fling, as its ripples gently flow,
A burnished length of wavy beam
In an eel-like, spiral line below;
The winds are whist, and the owl is still;
The bat in the shelvy rock is hid;
And naught is heard on the lonely hill
But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill
Of the gauze-winged katydid;
And the plaint of the wailing whippoorwill,
Who moans unseen, and ceaseless sings,
Ever a note of wail and woe,
Till morning spreads her rosy wings,
And earth and sky in her glances glow.
'Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell:
The wood-tick has kept the minutes well;


## p. 4855 (#653) ###########################################

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
4855
He has counted them all with click and stroke
Deep in the heart of the mountain oak,
And he has awakened the sentry elve
Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree,
To bid him ring the hour of twelve,
And call the fays to their revelry;
Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell
('Twas made of the white snail's pearly shell)
"Midnight comes, and all is well!
Hither, hither, wing your way!
'Tis the dawn of the fairy day. "
They come from beds of lichen green,
They creep from the mullein's velvet screen;
Some on the backs of beetles fly
From the silver tops of moon-touched trees,
Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks high,
And rocked about in the evening breeze;
Some from the hum-bird's downy nest-
They had driven him out by elfin power,
And pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast,
Had slumbered there till the charmed hour;
Some had lain in the scoop of the rock,
With glittering ising-stars inlaid;
And some had opened the four-o'clock,
And stole within its purple shade.
And now they throng the moonlight glade,
Above, below, on every side,
Their little minim forms arrayed
In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride!
They come not now to print the lea,
In freak and dance around the tree,
Or at the mushroom board to sup,
And drink the dew from the buttercup;-
A scene of sorrow waits them now,
For an ouphe has broken his vestal vow;
He has loved an earthly maid,
And left for her his woodland shade;
He has lain upon her lip of dew,
And sunned him in her eye of blue,
Fanned her cheek with his wing of air,
Played in the ringlets of her hair,
And nestling on her snowy breast,
Forgot the lily-king's behest.


## p. 4856 (#654) ###########################################

4856
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
For this the shadowy tribes of air
To the elfin court must haste away:
And now they stand expectant there,
To hear the doom of the culprit fay.
The throne was reared upon the grass,
Of spice-wood and of sassafras;
On pillars of mottled tortoise-shell
Hung the burnished canopy –
And o'er it gorgeous curtains fell
Of the tulip's crimson drapery.
The monarch sat on his judgment seat;
On his brow the crown imperial shone;
The prisoner fay was at his feet,
And his peers were ranged around the throne.
He waved his sceptre in the air,
He looked around and calmly spoke;
His brow was grave and his eye severe,
But his voice in a softened accent broke:-
"Fairy! Fairy! list and mark:
Thou hast broke thine elfin chain;
Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark,
And thy wings are dyed with a deadly stain-
Thou hast sullied thine elfin purity
In the glance of a mortal maiden's eye;
Thou hast scorned our dread decree,
And thou shouldst pay the forfeit high.
But well I know her sinless mind
Is pure as the angel forms above,
Gentle and meek, and chaste and kind,
Such as a spirit well might love;
Fairy! had she spot or taint,
Bitter had been thy punishment:
Tied to the hornet's shardy wings;
Tossed on the pricks of nettles' stings;
Or seven long ages doomed to dwell
With the lazy worm in the walnut-shell;
Or every night to writhe and bleed
Beneath the tread of the centipede;
Or bound in a cobweb dungeon dim,
Your jailer a spider, huge and grim,
Amid the carrion bodies to lie
Of the worm, and the bug, and the murdered fly:


## p. 4857 (#655) ###########################################

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
4857
These it had been your lot to bear,
Had a stain been found on the earthly fair.
Now list, and mark our mild decree —
Fairy, this your doom must be:-
"Thou shalt seek the beach of sand
Where the water bounds the elfin land;
Thou shalt watch the oozy brine
Till the sturgeon leaps in the bright moonshine,
Then dart the glistening arch below,
And catch a drop from his silver bow.
The water-sprites will wield their arms
And dash around, with roar and rave,
And vain are the woodland spirits' charms;
They are the imps that rule the wave.
Yet trust thee in thy single might:
If thy heart be pure and thy spirit right,
Thou shalt win the warlock fight.
"If the spray-bead gem be won,
The stain of thy wing is washed away;
But another errand must be done
Ere thy crime be lost for aye:
Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark,—
Thou must re-illume its spark.
Mount thy steed and spur him high
To the heaven's blue canopy;
And when thou seest a shooting star,
Follow it fast, and follow it far
The last faint spark of its burning train
Shall light the elfin lamp again.
Thou hast heard our sentence, fay;
Hence! to the water-side, away! "
The goblin marked his monarch well;
He spake not, but he bowed him low,
Then plucked a crimson colen-bell,
And turned him round in act to go.
The way is long; he cannot fly;
His soiled wing has lost its power,
And he winds adown the mountain high
For many a sore and weary hour.
Through dreary beds of tangled fern,
Through groves of nightshade dark and dern,


## p. 4858 (#656) ###########################################

4858
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
Over the grass and through the brake,
Where toils the ant and sleeps the snake;
Now o'er the violet's azure flush
He skips along in lightsome mood;
And now he thrids the bramble-bush,
Till its points are dyed in fairy blood.
He has leaped the bog, he has pierced the brier.
He has swum the brook and waded the mire,
Till his spirits sank and his limbs grew weak,
And the red waxed fainter in his cheek.
He had fallen to the ground outright,
For rugged and dim was his onward track,
But there came a spotted toad in sight,
And he laughed as he jumped upon her back:
He bridled her mouth with a silkweed twist,
He lashed her sides with an osier thong.
And now, through evening's dewy mist,
With leap and spring they bound along,
Till the mountain's magic verge is past,
And the beach of sand is reached at last.
Up, fairy! quit thy chickweed bower,
The cricket has called the second hour;
Twice again, and the lark will rise
To kiss the streaking of the skies-
Up! thy charmèd armor don;
Thou'lt need it ere the night be gone.
He put his acorn helmet on:
It was plumed of the silk of the thistle-down;
The corselet plate that guarded his breast
Was once the wild bee's golden vest;
His cloak, of a thousand mingled dyes,
Was formed of the wings of butterflies;
His shield was the shell of a lady-bug queen,
reen;
Studs of gold on a ground of
And the quivering lance which he brandished bright
Was the sting of a wasp he had slain in fight.
Swift he bestrode his firefly steed;
He bared his blade of the bent-grass blue;
He drove his spurs of the cockle-seed,
And away like a glance of thought he flew,
To skim the heavens, and follow far
The fiery trail of the rocket-star.


## p. 4859 (#657) ###########################################

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
4859-
The moth-fly, as he shot in air,
Crept under the leaf and hid her there;
The katydid forgot its lay,
The prowling gnat fled fast away,
The fell mosquito checked his drone
And folded his wings till the fay was gone,
And the wily beetle dropped his head,
And fell on the ground as if he were dead;
They crouched them close in the darksome shade,
They quaked all o'er with awe and fear,
For they had felt the blue-bent blade,
And writhed at the prick of the elfin spear;
Many a time, on a summer's night,
When the sky was clear, and the moon was bright,
They had been roused from the haunted ground
By the yelp and bay of the fairy hound;
They had heard the tiny bugle-horn,
They had heard the twang of the maize-silk string,
When the vine-twig bows were tightly drawn,
And the needle-shaft through air was borne,
Feathered with down of the hum-bird's wing.
And now they deemed the courier ouphe
Some hunter-sprite of the elfin ground;
And they watched till they saw him mount the roof
That canopies the world around;
Then glad they left their covert lair,
And freaked about in the midnight air.
Up to the vaulted firmament
His path the firefly courser bent,
And at every gallop on the wind,
He flung a glittering spark behind;
He flies like a feather in the blast
Till the first light cloud in heaven is past.
But the shapes of air have begun their work,
And a drizzly mist is round him cast;
He cannot see through the mantle murk;
He shivers with cold, but he urges fast;
Through storm and darkness, sleet and shade,
He lashes his steed, and spurs amain-
For shadowy hands have twitched the rein,
And flame-shot tongues around him played,
And near him many a fiendish eye
Glared with a fell malignity,


## p. 4860 (#658) ###########################################

4860
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
And yells of rage, and shrieks of fear,
Came screaming on his startled ear.
His wings are wet around his breast,
The plume hangs dripping from his crest,
His eyes are blurred with the lightning's glare,
And his ears are stunned with the thunder's blare.