RAMON DE
CAMPOAMOR
(Spanish).
Warner - World's Best Literature - v28 - Songs, Hymns, Lyrics
But the Abbot was thinking of scenery
About as much, in sooth,
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SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16939
As a lover thinks of constancy,
Or an advocate of truth.
He did not mark how the skies in wrath
Grew dark above his head;
He did not mark how the mossy path
Grew damp beneath his tread:
And nearer he came, and still more near,
To a pool, in whose recess
The water had slept for many a year,
Unchanged and motionless;
From the river-stream it spread away
The space of half a rood;
The surface had the hue of clay
And the scent of human blood;
The trees and the herbs that round it grew
Were venomous and foul,
And the birds that through the bushes flew
Were the vulture and the owl;
The water was as dark and rank
As ever a Company pumped,
And the perch, that was netted and laid on the bank,
Grew rotten while it jumped;
And bold was he who thither came
At midnight, man or boy,
For the place was cursed with an evil name,
And that name was “The Devil's Decoy! ”
The Abbot was weary as abbot could be,
And he sat down to rest on the stump of a tree;
When suddenly rose a dismal tone,-
Was it a song, or was it a moan ?
“Oho! O ho!
Above - below -
Lightly and brightly they glide and go!
The hungry and keen on the top are leaping,
The lazy and fat in the depths are sleeping:
Fishing is fine when the pool is muddy,
Broiling is rich when the coals are ruddy! ”
In a monstrous fright, by the murky light,
He looked to the left and he looked to the right,
And what was the vision close before him,
That flung such a sudden stupor o'er him ?
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SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
'Twas a sight to make the hair uprise,
And the life-blood colder run:
The startled Priest struck both his thighs,
And the abbey-clock struck one!
All alone, by the side of the pool,
A tall man sat on a three-legged stool,
Kicking his heels on the dewy sod,
And putting in order his reel and rod:
Red were the rags his shoulders wore,
And a high red cap on his head he bore;
His arms and his legs were long and bare;
And two or three locks of long red hair
Were tossing about his scraggy neck,
Like a tattered flag o'er a splitting wreck.
It might be time, or it might be trouble,
Had bent that stout back nearly double,
Sunk in their deep and hollow sockets
That blazing couple of Congreve rockets,
And shrunk and shriveled that tawny skin
Till it hardly covered the bones within.
The line the Abbot saw him throw
Had been fashioned and formed long ages ago,
And the hands that worked his foreign vest
Long ages ago had gone to their rest:
You would have sworn as you looked on them,
He had fished in the Flood with Ham and Shem!
There was turning of keys and creaking of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.
Minnow or gentle, worm or fly,-
It seemed not such to the Abbot's eye:
Gayly it glittered with jewel and gem,
And its shape was the shape of a diadem.
It was fastened a gleaming hook about
By a chain within and a chain without;
The Fisherman gave it a kick and a spin,
And the water fizzed as it tumbled in!
From the bowels of the earth
Strange and varied sounds had birth:
Now the battle's bursting peal,
Neigh of steed and clang of steel;
Now an old man's hollow groan
Echoed from the dungeon-stone;
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16941
Now the weak and wailing cry
Of a stripling's agony! -
Cold by this was the midnight air;
But the Abbot's blood ran colder
When he saw a gasping Knight lie there,
With a gash beneath his clotted hair,
And a hump upon his shoulder.
And the loyal churchman strove in vain
To mutter a Pater Noster;
For he who writhed in mortal pain
Was camped that night on Bosworth plain -
The cruel Duke of Gloster!
There was turning of keys and creaking of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.
It was a haunch of princely size,
Filling with fragrance earth and skies.
The corpulent Abbot knew full well
The swelling form and the steaming smell:
Never a monk that wore a hood
Could better have guessed the very wood
Where the noble hart had stood at bay,
Weary and wounded, at close of day.
Sounded then the noisy glee
Of a reveling company. -
Sprightly story, wicked jest,
Rated servant, greeted guest,
Flow of wine and flight of cork,
Stroke of knife and thrust of fork:
But where'er the board was spread,
Grace, I ween, was never said ! -
Pulling and tugging the Fisherman sat;
And the Priest was ready to vomit
When he hauled out a gentleman, fine and fat,
With a belly as big as a brimming vat,
And a nose as red as a comet.
"A capital stew,” the Fisherman said,
« With cinnamon and sherry! ”
And the Abbot turned away his head,
For his brother was lying before him dead,
The mayor of St. Edmund's Bury!
There was turning of keys and creaking of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.
## p. 16942 (#642) ##########################################
16942
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
It was a bundle of beautiful things,-
A peacock's tail, and a butterfly's wings,
A scarlet slipper, an auburn curl,
A mantle of silk, and a bracelet of pearl,
And a packet of letters, from whose sweet fold
Such a stream of delicate odors rolled,
That the Abbot fell on his face and fainted,
And deemed his spirit was half-way sainted.
Sounds seemed dropping from the skies,-
Stifled whispers, smothered sighs,
And the breath of vernal gales,
And the voice of nightingales:
But the nightingales were mute,
Envious, when an unseen lute
Shaped the music of its chords
Into passion's thrilling words:-
"Smile, Lady, smile! — I will not set
Upon my brow the coronet,
Till thou wilt gather roses white
To wear around its gems of light.
Smile, Lady, smile! -I will not see
Rivers and Hastings bend the knee,
Till those bewitching lips of thine
Will bid me rise in bliss from mine.
Smile, Lady, smile! for who would win
A loveless throne through guilt and sin ?
Or who would reign o'er vale and hill,
If woman's heart were rebel still ? ”
One jerk, and there a lady lay,
A lady wondrous fair;
But the rose of her lip had faded away,
And her cheek was as white and as cold as clay,
And torn was her raven hair.
“Ah ha! ” said the Fisher, in merry guise,
“Her gallant was hooked before ;)
And the Abbot heaved some piteous sighs,
For oft he had blessed those deep blue eyes, —
The eyes of Mistress Shore !
There was turning of keys and creaking of locks,
As he took forth a bait froin his iron box.
Many the cunning sportsman tried,
Many he flung with a frown aside:
## p. 16943 (#643) ##########################################
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16943
A minstrel's harp, and a miser's chest,
A hermit's cowl, and a baron's crest,
Jewels of lustre, robes of price,
Tomes of heresy, loaded dice,
And golden cups of the brightest wine
That ever was pressed from the Burgundy vine.
There was a perfume of sulphur and nitre,
As he came at last to a bishop's mitre!
From top to toe the Abbot shook,
As the Fisherman armed his golden hook,
And awfully were his features wrought
By some dark dream or wakened thought.
Look how the fearful felon gazes
On the scaffold his country's vengeance rạises,
When the lips are cracked and the jaws are dry
With the thirst which only in death shall die;
Mark the mariner's frenzied frown
As the swaling wherry settles down,
When peril has numbed the senses and will,
Though the hand and the foot may struggle still; —
Wilder far was the Abbot's glance,
Deeper far was the Abbot's trance:
Fixed as a monument, still as air,
He bent no knee, and he breathed no prayer;
But he signed — he knew not why or how-
The sign of the Cross on his clammy brow.
There was turning of keys and creaking of locks,
As he stalked away with his iron box.
« Oho! Oho!
The cock doth crow;
It is time for the Fisher to rise and go.
Fair luck to the Abbot, fair luck to the shrine !
He hath gnawed in twain my choicest line:
Let him swim to the north, let him swim to the south,
The Abbot will carry my hook in his mouth! ”
The Abbot had preached for many years
With as clear articulation
As ever was heard in the House of Peers
Against Emancipation;
His words had made battalions quake,
Had roused the zeal of martyrs,
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SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Had kept the Court an hour awake,
And the King himself three-quarters:
But ever from that hour, 'tis said,
He stammered and he stuttered,
As if an axe went through his head
With every word he uttered.
He stuttered o'er blessing, he stuttered o'er ban,
He stuttered, drunk or dry;
And none but he and the Fisherman
Could tell the reason why!
WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.
A FOLK-SONG
THE MARINE
(Poitevin)
THE
He bold Marine comes back from war,
All so kind;
The bold Marine comes back from war,
So kind:
With a raggety coat and a worn-out shoe.
“Now, poor Marine, say, whence come you,
All so kind? » -
“I travel back from the war, madame,
All so kind;
I travel back from the war, madame,
So kind:
For a glass of wine and a bowl of whey
'Tis I who will sing you a ballad gay,
All so kind. ”
The bold Marine he sips his whey,
All so kind;
He sips and he sings his ballad gay,
So kind:
But the dame she turns her against the wall,
For to wipe her tears that fall and fall,
All so kind.
«What aileth you at my song, madame,
All so kind ?
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16945
I hope that I sing no wrong, madame,
So kind:
Or grieves it you that a beggar should dine
On a bowl of whey and this good white wine,
All so kind ? ».
“It ails me not at your ballad gay,
All so kind;
It ails not for the wine and whey,
So kind:
But it ails me sore at the voice and eyes
Of a good man long in Paradise,
All so kind. ”
»
« You have fair children five, madame,
All so kind;
You have fair children five, madame,
So kind:
Your good man left you children three —
Whence came these twain for company,
All so kind ? » —
“A letter came from the war, Marine,
All so kind;
A letter came from the war, Marine,
So kind:
For a while I wept for the good man dead,
But another good man in a while I wed,
All so kind. ”
The bold Marine he drained his glass,
All so kind;
The bold Marine he drained his glass,
So kind:
He said not a word, though the tears they flowed,
But back to his regiment took the road,
All so kind.
Q.
"Chants et Chansons Populaires des Provinces de l'Ouest. )
XXVIII-1060
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16946
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE STORY OF KARIN
K
ARIN the fair, Karin the gay,
She came on the morn of her bridal day,–
She came to the mill-pond clear and bright,
And viewed hersel' in the morning light.
“And oh,” she cried, « that my bonny brow
May ever be white and smooth as now!
“And oh, my hair, that I love to braid,
Be yellow in sunshine, and brown in shade!
"And oh, my waist, sae slender and fine,
May it never need girdle longer than mine! ”
She lingered and laughed o'er the waters clear,
When sudden she starts, and shrieks in fear :-
“Oh, what is this face, sae laidly old,
That looks at my side in the waters cold ? »
She turns around to view the bank,
And the osier willows dark and dank;
And from the fern she sees arise
An aged crone wi' awesome eyes.
C
“Ha! ha! ” she laughed, “ye're a bonny bride!
See how ye'll fare gin the New Year tide!
« Ye'll wear a robe sae blithely gran',
An ell-long girdle canna span.
«When twal-months three shall pass away,
Your berry-brown hair shall be streaked wi' gray.
"And gin ye be mither of bairnies nine,
Your brow shall be wrinkled and dark as mine. )
Karin she sprang to her feet wi' speed,
And clapped her hands abune her head:
"I pray to the saints and spirits all,
That never a child may me mither call! »
The crone drew near, and the crone she spake:-
“Nine times flesh and banes shall ache.
Laidly and awesome ye shall wane
Wi' toil, and care, and travail-pain. ”
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16947
« Better,” said Karin, “lay me low,
And sink for aye in the water's flow! )
The crone raised her withered hand on high,
And showed her a tree that stood near by.
(
“And take of the bonny fruit,” she said,
"And eat till the seeds are dark and red.
« Count them less, or count them more,
Nine times you shall number o'er; —
“And when each number you shall speak,
Cast seed by seed into the lake. ”
Karin she ate of the fruit sae fine;
'Twas mellow as sand, and sweet as brine.
Seed by seed she let them fall :
The waters rippled over all.
But ilka seed as Karin threw,
Uprose a bubble to her view,-
Uprose a sigh from out the lake,–
As thougii a baby's heart did break.
Twice nine years are come and gone;
Karin the fair she walks her lone.
She sees around on ilka side,
Maiden and mither, wife and bride.
Wan and pale her bonny brow,
Sunken and sad her eyelids now.
Slow her step and heavy her breast,
And never an arm whereon to rest.
The old kirk-porch when Karin spied,
The postern-door was open wide.
<< Wae's me! ” she said: “I'll enter in
And shrive me from my every sin. ”
Twas silence all within the kirk;
The aisle was empty, chill, and mirk.
The chancel-rails were black and bare;
Nae priest, nae penitent, was there.
## p. 16948 (#648) ##########################################
16948
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Karin knelt, and her prayer she said;
But her heart within her was heavy and dead.
Her prayer fell back on the cold gray stone;
It would not rise to heaven alone.
Darker grew the darksome aisle,
Colder felt her heart the while.
“Wae's me! ” she cried, “what is my sin ?
Never I wronged kith nor kin.
“But why do I start and quake wi' fear
Lest I a dreadful doom should hear?
“And what is this light that seems to fall
On the sixth command upon the wall ?
"And who are these I see arise
And look on me wi' stony eyes?
«A shadowy troop, they flock sae fast
The kirk-yard may not hold the last.
“Young and old of ilk degree,
Bairns, and bairnies' bairns, I see.
(
"All I look on either way,
(Mother, mother! ) seem to say.
<< We are souls that might have been,
But for your vanity and sin.
«« (We, in numbers multiplied,
Might have lived, and loved, and died, -
« (Might have served the Lord in this, -
Might have met thy soul in bliss.
« (Mourn for us, then, while you pray,
Who might have been, but never may! ) »
Thus the voices died away,
“Might have been, but never may! »
Karin she left the kirk no more ;
Never she passed the postern-door.
They found her dead at the vesper toll:-
May Heaven in mercy rest her soul!
Danish.
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16949
THE MERMAN
‘Dº
O THOU, dear mother, contrive amain
How Marsk Stig's daughter I may gain. ”
She made him, of water, a noble steed,
Whose trappings were formed from rush and reed.
To a young knight changed she then her son;
To Mary's church at full speed he's gone.
His foaming horse to the gate he bound,
And paced the church full three times round.
When in he walked with his plume on high,
The dead men gave from their tombs a sigh;
The priest heard that, and he closed his book –
“Methinks yon knight has a strange wild look. ”
Then laughed the maiden beneath her sleeve:
“If he were my husband I should not grieve. ”
He stepped over benches one and two:
“O Marsk Stig's daughter, I doat on you. ”
He stepped over benches two and three:
“O Marsk Stig's daughter, come home with me. ”
Then said the maid without more ado,-
«Here, take my troth – I will go with you. ”
They went from the church a bridal train,
And danced so gayly across the plain;
They danced till they came to the strand, and then
They were forsaken by maids and men.
(
Now, Marsk Stig's daughter, sit down and rest:
To build a boat I will do my best. ”
He built a boat of the whitest sand,
And away they went from the smiling land;
But when they had crossed the ninth green wave,
Down sunk the boat to the ocean cave!
I caution ye, maids, as well as I can,
Ne'er give your troth to an unknown man.
Translation of George Borrow.
Danish.
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16950
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE LEGEND OF WALBACH TOWER
[Scene: Fort Constitution, on the island of Newcastle, off Portsmouth, New
Hampshire,, Colonel Walbach commanding. Period, the fall of 1813. )
ORE ill at ease was never man than Walbach, that Lord's day,
M
this way! ”
His pipe, half filled, to shatters flew; he climbed the ridge of knolls,
And turning spy-glass toward the east, swept the long reach of
Shoals.
An hour he watched: behind his back the Portsmouth spires waxed
red;
Its harbor like a field of war, a brazen shield o'erhead.
Another hour: the sundown gun the Sabbath stillness brake;
When loud a second voice hallooed, “Two war-ships hither make! )
Again the colonel scanned the east, where soon white gleams arose:
Behind Star Isle they first appeared, then flashed o'er Smuttynose.
Fleet-winged they left Duck Isle astern; when, rounding full in view,
Lo! in the face of Appledore three Britishers hove to.
(
“To arms, 0 townsfolk! ) Walbach cried. « Behold these black hawk
three!
Whether they pluck old Portsmouth town rests now with you and me.
“The guns of Kittery, and mine, may keep the channel clear,
If but one pintle-stone be raised to ward me in the rear.
“But scarce a score my muster-roll; the earthworks lie unmanned;
(Whereof some mouthing spy, no doubt, has made them understand;)
«And if, ere dawn, their long-boat keels once kiss the nether sands,
My every port-hole's mouth is stopped, and we be in their hands! »
Then straightway from his place upspake the parson of the town:
“Let us beseech Heaven's blessing first! » — and all the folk knelt
down.
"O God, our hands are few and faint; our hope rests all with thee:
Lend us thy hand in this sore strait, - and thine the glory be. ”
«Amen! Amen! ” the chorus rose; “Amen! ) the pines replied;
And through the church-yard's rustling grass an "Amen” softly
sighed.
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16951
Astir the village was awhile, with hoof and iron clang;
Then all grew still, save where, aloft, a hundred trowels rang.
None supped, they say, that Lord's-day eve; none slept, they say, that
night:
But all night long, with tireless arms, each toiled as best he might.
Four flax-haired boys of Amazeen the flickering torches stay,
Peopling with Titan shadow-groups the canopy of gray;
Grandsires, with frost above their brows, the steaming mortar mix;
Dame Tarlton's apron, crisp at dawn, helps hod the yellow bricks;
While pilot, cooper, mackerelman, parson and squire as well,
Make haste to plant the pintle-gun, and raise its citadel.
And one who wrought still tells the tale, that as his task he plied,
An unseen fellow-form he felt that labored at his side;
And still to wondering ears relates, that as each brick was squared,
Lo! unseen trowels clinked response, and a new course prepared.
O night of nights! The blinking dawn beheld the marvel done,
And from the new martello boomed the echoing morning gun.
One stormy cloud its lips upblew; and as its thunder rolled,
Old England saw, above the smoke, New England's flag unfold.
Then, slowly tacking to and fro, more near the cruisers made,
To see what force unheralded had flown to Walbach's aid.
“God be our stay,” the parson cried, “who hearkened Israel's wail! »
And as he spake, - all in a line, seaward the ships set sail.
GEORGE HOUGHTON.
THE PIPER OF GIJÓN
"Nº"
ow the dancers take their places;
But the piper, where is he?
“He is burying his mother,
But he'll be here presently. ” —
“And will he come? ) What can he do?
See him now, to duty true,
With his pipes; but ah, how heavy
A heart he carries is only known
To the piper,
To the piper of Gijón!
## p. 16952 (#652) ##########################################
16952
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
When he thinks how desolate
A hearth awaits now his return,
Tears like molten lead his bosom,
In secret overflowing, burn.
But his brothers must be fed;
His the hands must earn their bread:
So his merry tunes, though joy
From his life for aye be gone,
Plays the piper,
Plays the piper of Gijón.
In all the western land was never
Mother held than his more dear;
And now the grave has closed above her,
Parting them forever here.
While he pipes his merry strain,
Sobs he seeks to still in vain
With it mingle, fierce and bitter,
Like the wounded lion's groan.
Hapless piper !
Hapless piper of Gijón!
C
«Faster! ) cry the eager dancers;
«Faster! ) Faster still he plays;
Beneath a smiling face his anguish
To hide, though vainly, he essays.
And seeing him pipe gayly thus,
While flow his tears, as Zoilus
Blind Homer once, some pitiless
Mock the aspect woebegone
Of the piper,
Of the piper of Gijón.
“Ah,” he cries, with bosom heaving,
« Mother, mother, how a sigh
Relieves the breast with anguish laden,”
While he pipes on merrily;
For in his breast the voice he hears,
Now stilled in death, that on his ears
Fell sweetest, that shall ever echo
In the heart, a benison,
Of the piper,
Of the piper of Gijón.
How many another, too, concealing
Beneath a smiling countenance
## p. 16953 (#653) ##########################################
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16953
His unshared agony, pipes gayly
That others to his strains may dance.
So does the poet with his song
Rejoice the world, while he among
Its merry masquers sits apart,
In spirit and in heart alone,
Like the piper,
Like the piper of Gijón.
RAMON DE CAMPOAMOR (Spanish).
Translation of Mary J. Serrano.
OJISTOH
I
AM Ojistoh, I am she, the wife
Of him whose name breathes bravery and life
And courage to the tribe that calls him chief.
I am Ojistoh, his white star, and he
Is land and lake and sky — and soul, to me.
Ah! but they hated him, those Huron braves,
Him who had flung their warriors into graves,
Him who had crushed them underneath his heel,
Whose arm was iron, and whose heart was steel
To all — save me, Ojistoh, chosen wife
Of my great Mohawk, white star of his life.
Ah! but they hated him, and counciled long
With subtle witchcraft how to work him wrong;
How to avenge their dead, and strike him where
His pride was highest, and his fame most fair.
Their hearts grew weak as women at his name;
They dared no war-path since my Mohawk came
With ashen bow and flinten arrow-head
To pierce their craven bodies; but their dead
Must be avenged. Avenged? They dared not walk
In day and meet his deadly tomahawk;
They dared not face his fearless scalping-knife:
So-Niyoh! * — then they thought of me, his wife. .
Oh! evil, evil face of them they sent
With evil Huron speech : “Would I consent
*God, in the Mohawk language.
## p. 16954 (#654) ##########################################
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SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
To take of wealth ? be queen of all their tribe?
Have wampum ermine ? ) Back I flung the bribe
Into their teeth, and said, “While I have life,
Know this, - Ojistoh is the Mohawk's wife. ”
Wah! how we struggled! But their arms were strong.
They flung me on their pony's back, with thong
Round ankle, wrist, and shoulder. Then upleapt
The one I hated most; his eye he swept
Over my misery, and sneering said,
“Thus, fair Ojistoh, we avenge our dead. ”
And we two rode, rode as a sea wind-chased,
I, bound with buckskin to his hated waist,
He, sneering, laughing, jeering, while he lashed
The horse to foam, as on and on we dashed.
Plunging through creek and river, bush and trail,
On, on we galloped, like a northern gale.
At last, his distant Huron fires aflame
We saw, and nearer, nearer still we came.
I, bound behind him in the captive's place,
Scarcely could see the outline of his face.
I smiled, and laid my cheek against his back:-
“Loose thou my hands,” I said. “This pace let slack.
Forget we now that thou and I are foes.
I like thee well, and wish to clasp thee close;
I like the courage of thine eye and brow;
I like thee better than my Mohawk now. ”
He cut the cords; we ceased our maddened haste.
I wound my arms about his tawny waist;
My hand crept up the buckskin of his belt;
His knife hilt in my burning palm I felt;
One hand caressed his cheek, the other drew
The weapon softly — "I love you, love you,”
I whispered, love you as my life; »
And — buried in his back his scalping knife.
Ha! how I rode, rode as a sea wind-chased,
Mad with my sudden freedom, mad with haste,
Back to my Mohawk and my home; I lashed
That horse to foam, as on and on I dashed.
Plunging through creek and river, bush and trail,
On, on I galloped like a northern gale.
## p. 16955 (#655) ##########################################
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16955
And then my distant Mohawk's fires aflame
I saw, as nearer, nearer still I came,
My hands all wet, stained with a life's red dye,
But pure my soul, pure as those stars on high —
“My Mohawk's pure white star, Ojistoh, still am I. ”
E. PAULINE JOHNSON (“Tekahionwake").
BOS'N HILL
Th*
He wind blows wild on Bos'n Hill,
Far off is heard the ocean's note;
Low overhead the gulls scream shrill,
And homeward scuds each little boat.
Then the dead Bos'n wakes in glee
To hear the storm king's song;
And from the top of mast-pine tree
He blows his whistle loud and long.
The village sailors hear the call,
Lips pale and eyes grow dim:
Well know they, though he pipes them all,
He means but one shall answer him.
He pipes the dead up from their graves,
Whose bones the tansy hides;
He pipes the dead beneath the waves, -
They hear and cleave the rising tides.
But sailors know when next they sail
Beyond the Hilltop's view,
There's one amongst them shall not fail
To join the Bos'n Crew.
JOHN ALBEE.
## p. 16956 (#656) ##########################################
16956
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
PETER RUGG THE BOSTONIAN
I
T"
He mare is pawing by the oak,
The chaise is cool and wide
For Peter Rugg the Bostonian
With his little son beside;
The women loiter at the wheels
In the pleasant summer-tide.
“And when wilt thou be home, father ? »
« And when, good husband, say:
The cloud hangs heavy on the house
What time thou art away. ”
He answers straight, he answers short,
“At noon of the seventh day. ”
“Fail not to come, if God so will,
And the weather be kind and clear. ”
«Farewell, farewell! But who am I
A blockhead rain to fear?
God willing or God unwilling,
I have said it, I will be here. "
He gathers up the sunburnt boy,
And from the gate is sped;
He shakes the spark from the stones below,
The bloom from overhead,
Till the last roofs of his own town
Pass in the morning-red.
Upon a homely mission
North unto York he goes,
Through the long highway broidered thick
With elder-blow and rose;
And sleeps in sound of breakers
At every twilight's close.
Intense upon his heedless head
Frowns Agamenticus,
Knowing of Heaven's challenger
The answer: even thus
The Patience that is hid on high
Doth stoop to master us.
## p. 16957 (#657) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16957
II
Full light are all his parting dreams;
Desire is in his brain;
He tightens at the tavern-post
The fiery creature's rein.
“Now eat thine apple, six-years child!
We face for home again. ”
They had not gone a many mile
With nimble heart and tongue,
When the lone thrush grew silent
The walnut woods among;
And on the lulled horizon
A premonition hung.
The babes at Hampton schoolhouse,
The wife with lads at sea,
Search with a level lifted hand
The distance bodingly;
And farmer folk bid pilgrims in
Under a safe roof-tree.
The mowers mark by Newbury
How low the swallows fly;
They glance across the southern roads
All white and fever-dry.
And the river, anxious at the bend,
Beneath a thinking sky.
But there is one abroad was born
To disbelieve and dare:
Along the highway furiously
He cuts the purple air.
The wind leaps on the startled world
As hounds upon a hare;
With brawl and glare and shudder ope
The sluices of the storm :
The woods break down, the sand upblows
In blinding volley's warm;
The yellow floods in frantic surge
Familiar fields deform.
From evening until morning
His skill will not avail,
## p. 16958 (#658) ##########################################
16958
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
And as he cheers his youngest born,
His cheek is spectre-pale;
For the bonnie mare from courses known
Has drifted like a sail!
INI
On some wild crag he sees the dawn
Unsheathe her scimiter.
“Oh, if it be my mother-earth
And not a foreign star,
Tell me the way to Boston,
And is it near or far?
One watchman lifts his lamp and laughs:
“Ye've many a league to wend. ”
The next doth bless the sleeping boy
From his mad father's end;
A third upon a drawbridge growls,
“Bear ye to larboard, friend. ”
Forward and backward, like a stone
The tides have in their hold,
He dashes east, and then distraught
Darts west as he is told.
(Peter Rugg the Bostonian,
That knew the land of old ! ).
And journeying, and resting scarce
A melancholy space,
Turns to and fro, and round and round,
The frenzy in his face,
And ends alway in angrier mood,
And in a stranger place:
Lost! lost in bayberry thickets
Where Plymouth plovers run,
And where the masts of Salem
Look lordly in the sun;
Lost in the Concord vale, and lost
By rocky Wollaston!
Small thanks have they that guide him,
Awed and aware of blight;
To hear him shriek denial,
It sickens them with fright:-
“They lied to me a month ago
With thy same lie to-night! ”
## p. 16959 (#659) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16959
To-night, to-night, as nights succeed,
He swears at home to bide,
Until, pursued with laughter
Or fied as soon as spied,
The weather-drenched man is known
Over the country-side!
IV
The seventh noon's a memory,
And autumn's closing in;
The quince is fragrant on the bough,
And barley chokes the bin.
“O Boston, Boston, Boston!
And O my kith and kin! ”
The snow climbs o'er the pasture wall,
It crackles 'neath the moon;
And now the rustic sows the seed,
Damp in his heavy shoon;
And now the building jays are loud
In canopies of June.
For season after season
The three are whirled along,
Misled by every instinct
Of light, or scent, or song;
Yea, put them on the surest trail,
The trail is in the wrong.
Upon those wheels in any path
The rain will follow loud,
And he who meets that ghostly man
Will meet a thunder-cloud,
And whosoever speaks with him
May next bespeak his shroud.
Though nigh two hundred years have gone,
Doth Peter Rugg the more
A gentle answer and a true
Of living lips implore:-
“Oh, show me to my own town,
And to my open door! ”
V
Where shall he see his own town,
Once dear unto his feet?
## p. 16960 (#660) ##########################################
16960
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
The psalms, the tankard to the king,
The beacon's cliffy seat,
The gabled neighborhood, the stocks
Set in the middle street ?
How shall he know his own town
If now he clatters through ?
Much men and cities change that have
Another love to woo;
And things occult, incredible,
They find to think and do.
With such new wonders since he went
A broader gossip copes;
Across the crowded triple hills,
And up the harbor slopes,
Tradition's self for him no more
Remembers, watches, hopes.
But ye, 0 unborn children!
(For many a race must thrive
And drip away like icicles
Ere Peter Rugg arrive,)
If of a sudden to your ears
His plaint is blown alive;
If nigh the city, folding in
A little lad that cries,
A wet and weary traveler
Shall fix you with his eyes,
And from the crazy carriage lean
To spend his heart in sighs:-
“That I may enter Boston,
Oh, help it to befall!
There would no fear encompass me,
No evil craft appall:
Ah, but to be in Boston,
GOD WILLING, after all ! »
Ye children, tremble not, but go
And lift his bridle brave
In the one Name, the dread Name,
That doth forgive and save,
And lead him home to Copp's Hill ground,
And to his fathers' grave.
LOUISE I MOGEN GUINEY.
## p. 16961 (#661) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16961
THE MYSTERY OF CRO-A-TÀN *
A. D. 1587
From Colonial Ballads, Sonnets, and Other Verses. ) Copyright 1887, by
Margaret J. Preston. Published by Houghton, Mimin & Co.
I
T"
HE home-bound ships stood out to sea,
And on the island's marge
Sir Richard waited restlessly
To step into the barge.
« The Governor tarrieth long," he chode,
“As he were loath to go:
With food before and want behind,
There should be haste, I trow. "
Even as he spake the Governor came:-
“Nay, fret not, for the men
Have held me back with frantic let,
To have them home again.
« The women weep:- 'Ay, ay, the ships
Will come again (he saith)
Before the May;— before the May
We shall have starved to death!
“I've sworn return by God's dear leave,
I've vowed by Court and Crown,
Nor yet appeased them. Comrade, thou,
Mayhap, canst soothe them down. ”
.
Sir Richard loosed his helm, and stretched
Impatient hands abroad:
“Have ye no trust in man? ” he cried,
“Have ye no faith in God ?
«Your Governor goes, as needs he must,
To bear through royal grace,
Hither, such food-supply that want
May never blench a face.
“Of freest choice ye willed to leave
Whatso ye had of ease;
* The first English colony was sent to America by Sir Walter Raleigh
under the auspices of Sir Richard Grenville. The settlement was made on
Roanoke Island in Albemarle Sound.
XXVIII-1061
## p. 16962 (#662) ##########################################
16962
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
For neither stress of liege nor law
Hath forced you over seas.
« Your Governor leaves fair hostages
As costliest pledge of care,–
His daughter yonder, and her child,
The child Virginia Dare. *
“Come hither, little sweetheart! So!
Thou'lt be the first, I ween,
To bend the knee, and send through me
Thy birthland's virgin fealty
Unto its Virgin Queen.
“And now, good folk, for my com mmands:
If ye are fain to roam
Beyond this island's narrow bounds,
To seek elsewhere a home,-
“Upon some pine-tree's smoothen trunk
Score deep the Indian name
Of tribe or village where ye haunt,
That we may read the same.
"And if ye leave your haven here
Through dire distress or loss,
Cut deep within the wood above
The syin bol of the cross.
"And now on my good blade, I swear,
And seal it with this sign,
That if the fleet that sails to-day
Return not hither by the May,
The fault shall not be mine ! »
II
The breath of spring was on the sea;
Anon the Governor stepped
His good ship's deck right merrily,-
His promise had been kept.
((
See, see! the coast-line comes in view ! »
He heard the mariners shout,-
“We'll drop our anchors in the Sound
Before a star is out! )
* Virginia Dare, the granddaughter of Governor Whyte, was the first Eng-
lish child born in America.
## p. 16963 (#663) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16963
“Now God be praised! ” he inly breathed,
« Who saves from all that harms:
The morrow morn my pretty ones
Will rest within my arms. "
At dawn of day they moored their ships,
And dared the breakers' roar:
What meant it? Not a man was there
To welcome them ashore !
They sprang to find the cabins rude:
The quick green sedge had thrown
Its knotted web o'er every door,
And climbed the chimney-stone.
The spring was choked with winter's leaves,
And feebly gurgled on;
And from the pathway, strewn with rack,
All trace of feet was gone.
Their fingers thrid the matted grass,
If there, perchance, a mound
Unseen might heave the broken turf;
But not a grave was found.
They beat the tangled cypress swamp,
If haply in despair
They might have strayed into its glade,
But found no vestige there.
« The pine! the pine! ) the Governor groaned;
And there each staring man
Read in a maze, one single word,
Deep carven,- CRO-A-TÀN!
But cut above, no cross, no sign,
No symbol of distress;
Naught else beside that mystic line
Within the wilderness!
And where and what was “Cro-a-tàn”?
But not an answer came;
And none of all who read it there
Had ever heard the name.
The Governor drew his jerkin sleeve
Across his misty eyes:
“Some land, may be, of savagery
Beyond the coast that lies;
## p. 16964 (#664) ##########################################
16964
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
“And skulking there the wily foe
In ambush may have lain:
God's mercy! Could such sweetest heads
Lie scalped among the slain ?
“O daughter! daughter! with the thought
My harrowed brain is wild !
Up with the anchors! I must find
The mother and the child! »
They scoured the mainland near and far:
The search no tidings brought;
Till 'mid a forest's dusky tribe
They heard the name they sought.
The kindly natives came with gifts
Of corn and slaughtered deer:
What room for savage treachery
Or foul suspicion here?
Unhindered of a chief or brave,
They searched the wigwam through;
But neither lance nor helm nor spear,
Nor shred of child's nor woman's gear,
Could furnish forth a clue.
How could a hundred souls be caught
Straight out of life, nor find
Device through which to mark their fate,
Or leave some hint behind ?
Had winter's ocean inland rolled
An eagre's deadly spray,
That overwhelmed the island's breadth,
And swept them all away?
In vain, in vain, their heart-sick search!
No tidings reached them more:
No record save that silent word
Upon that silent shore.
The mystery rests a mystery still,
Unsolved of mortal man
Sphinx-like untold, the ages hold
The tale of CRO-A-TÀN!
MARGARET J. PRESTON.
## p. 16965 (#665) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16965
POEMS FROM ORIENTAL LANGUAGES
IT IS ALL ONE IN THE TURKISH
(Turkish)
I
MEDDLE with the Future none; I travel not into the Farness,
And, for all vain desires of mine, still vainer world, I hand them
over t'ye:
I sometimes carve, but mostly starve; some scoundrel owns my horse and
harness :
I am, Ya Hu, the Sultan of the pillaged Realm of Rags and Poverty.
I work, or don't: all's one, that's clear; when once I am bowstrung,
shot, or sabred,
I'll sleep as soundly, never fear, as though I had ne'er done aught
but labored.
By SHERMIDEDEDEH, Grand Fakir (King of the Beggars).
Translation in Dublin University Magazine.
PERSIAN EPIGRAMS
(Fourteenth Century)
NAU
AUGHT, I hear thee say,
Can fill the greedy eye;
Yet a little clay
Will fill it by-and-by.
Thy thoughts are but Silver when told:
Locked up in thy breast they are Gold.
The steed to the man who bestrides it newly,
The sabre to him who best can wield it,
The damsel to him who has wooed her truly,
And the province to him who refuses to yield it.
AN HOUR of Good, a day of 111,
This is the lot of mourning Man,
Who leaves the world whene'er he will,
But goes to Heaven whene'er he
can.
Touch all that falls under thine eyes;
And beware
That thou buy not thy bird while he flies
In the air.
## p. 16966 (#666) ##########################################
16966
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
DEAD SEA FRUIT
(Turkish - Fifteenth Century)
TRUST
-
RUST not the World or Time,- they are liar-mates;
YA HU! *
Wealth borrows wings and woman goes her way:
YA HU!
Into the old house with the ebon gatest
YA HU!
Who enters is but guest and must not stay.
YA HU!
Look not upon the sun, for that shall die;
YA HU!
Love not the roses, for they must decay:
YA HU!
The child is caught by all that dupes the eye;
YA HU!
The man should gird his loins,— he cannot stay!
YA HU!
From moon to moon Time rolleth as a river;
YA HU!
Though night will soon o'erdark thy life's last ray,
YA HU!
Earth is the prison of the True Believer,
YA HU!
And who in prison stipulates to stay?
YA HU!
Up, dreamer, up! What takest Life to be?
YA HU!
Are centuries not made of night and day?
YA HU!
Call now on God while he will list to thee!
