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Various
International Miscellany of Literature, Art and Science, Vol. 1
"I know he is. I saw him last night."
"Ah, I have sometimes dreamed of a person's death, whom on the next morning I met perfectly well."
"I tell you I saw him struck by a ball in the breast, the blood running from the wound, looking staringly around, and smiling in the agonies of death."
"Madness! my dear Ebba," said Alete, with a burst of strange unnatural laughter, for in spite of herself she was impressed by the words of her sister. "Come, Eric and his father expect us. Let us pass our evening happily together, and shake off all these presentiments, which I pray to God may never be realized."
"Yes, come," and attempting to look gay, she said, "Madness! we will see."
During the next week, a letter from the mother of Ireneus informed them that the young officer had died on the very day of Ebba's dream, of a wound received at the siege of the Castle of Penissiere.
Ebba soon died, pronouncing the names of her father and sister, who wept at her bedside. Her last breath uttered one other name, that of Ireneus.
* * * * *
POEMS BY THE AUTHOR OF LILLIAN
The following pieces by WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED, have never before, we believe, been printed in this country.
THE LEGEND OF THE TEUFEL-HAUS
The way was lone, and the hour was late,
And Sir Rudolph was far from his castle gate.
The night came down, by slow degrees,
On the river stream, and the forest-trees;
And by the heat of the heavy air,
And by the lightning's distant glare,
And by the rustling of the woods,
And by the roaring of the floods,
In half an hour, a man might say,
The Spirit of Storm would ride that way.
But little he cared, that stripling pale,
For the sinking sun, or the rising gale;
For he, as he rode, was dreaming now,
Poor youth, of a woman's broken vow,
Of the cup dashed down, ere the wine was tasted,
Of eloquent speeches sadly wasted,
Of a gallant heart all burnt to ashes.
And the Baron of Katzberg's long mustaches,
So the earth below, and the heaven above,
He saw them not;—those dreams of love,
As some have found, and some will find,
Make men extremely deaf and blind.
At last he opened his great blue eyes,
And looking about in vast surprise,
Found that his hunter had turned his back,
An hour ago on the beaten track,
And now was threading a forest hoar,
Where steed had never stepped before.
"By Caesar's head," Sir Rudolph said,
"It were a sorry joke.
If I to-night should make my bed
On the turf, beneath an oak!
Poor Roland reeks from head to hoof;—
Now, for thy sake, good roan,
I would we were beneath a roof,
Were it the foul fiend's own!"
Ere the tongue could rest, ere the lips could close
The sound of a listener's laughter rose.
It was not the scream of a merry boy
When harlequin waves his wand of joy;
Nor the shout from a serious curate, won
By a bending bishop's annual pun;
Nor the roar of a Yorkshire clown;—oh, no!
It was a gentle laugh, and low;
Half uttered, perhaps, perhaps, and stifled half,
A good old-gentlemanly laugh;
Such as my uncle Peter's are,
When he tells you his tales of Dr. Parr.
The rider looked to the left and the right,
With something of marvel, and more of fright:
But brighter gleamed his anxious eye,
When a light shone out from a hill hard by.
Thither be spurred, as gay and glad
As Mrs. Maquill's delighted lad,
When he turns away from the Pleas of the Crown,
Or flings, with a yawn, old Saunders down,
And flies, at last, from all the mysteries
Of Plaintiffs' and Defendants' histories,
To make himself sublimely neat,
For Mrs. Camac's in Mansfield Street.
At a lofty gate Sir Rudolph halted;
Down from his seat Sir Rudolph vaulted:
And he blew a blast with might and main,
On the bugle that hung by an iron chain.
The sound called up a score of sounds;—
The screeching of owls, and the baying of hounds,
The hollow toll of the turret bell,
The call of the watchful sentinel.
And a groan at last, like a peal of thunder,
As the huge old portals rolled asunder,
And gravely from the castle hall
Paced forth the white-robed seneschal.
He stayed not to ask of what degree
So fair and famished a knight might be;
But knowing that all untimely question
Ruffles the temper, and mars the digestion,
He laid his hand upon the crupper.
And said,—"You're just in time for supper."
They led him to the smoking board.
And placed him next to the castle's lord.
He looked around with a hurried glance:
You may ride from the border to fair Penzance,
And nowhere, but at Epsom Races,
Find such a group of ruffian faces,
As thronged that chamber; some were talking
Of feats of hunting and of hawking,
And some were drunk, and some were dreaming,
And some found pleasure in blaspheming.
He thought, as he gazed on the fearful crew,
That the lamps that burned on the walls burned blue.
They brought him a pasty of mighty size,
To cheer his heart, and to charm his eyes;
They brought the wine, so rich and old,
And filled to the brim the cup of gold;
The knight looked down, and the knight looked up,
But he carved not the meat, and he drained not the cup.
"Ho ho," said his host with angry brow,
"I wot our guest is fine;
Our fare is far too coarse, I trow,
For such nice taste as thine:
Yet trust me I have cooked the food,
And I have filled the can,
Since I have lived in this old wood,
For many nobler man."—
"The savory buck and the ancient cask
To a weary man are sweet;
But ere he taste, it is fit he ask
For a blessing on bowl and meat.
Let me but pray for a minute's space,
And bid me pledge ye then;
I swear to ye, by our Lady's grace,
I shall eat and drink like ten!"
The lord of the castle in wrath arose,
He frowned like a fiery dragon;
Indignantly he blew his nose,
And overturned the flagon.
And, "Away," quoth he, "with the canting priest.
Who comes uncalled to a midnight feast,
And breathes through a helmet his holy benison,
To sour my hock, and spoil my venison!"
That moment all the lights went out;
And they dragged him forth, that rabble rout,
With oath, and threat, and foul scurrility,
And every sort of incivility.
They barred the gates: and the peal of laughter,
Sudden and shrill that followed after,
Died off into a dismal tone,
Like a parting spirit's painful moan.
"I wish," said Rudolph, as he stood
On foot in the deep and silent wood;
"I wish, good Roland, rack and stable
May be kinder to-night than their master's table!"
By this the storm had fleeted by;
And the moon with a quiet smile looked out
From the glowing arch of a cloudless sky,
Flinging her silvery beams about
On rock, tree, wave, and gladdening all
With just as miscellaneous bounty,
As Isabel's, whose sweet smiles fall
In half an hour on half the county.
Less wild Sir Rudolph's pathway seemed,
As he fumed from that discourteous tower;
Small spots of verdure gaily gleamed
On either side; and many a flower,
Lily, and violet, and heart's-ease,
Grew by the way, a fragrant border;
And the tangled boughs of the hoary trees
Were twined in picturesque disorder:
And there came from the grove, and there came from
the hill,
The loveliest sounds he had ever heard,
The cheerful voice of the dancing rill,
And the sad, sad song of the lonely bird.
And at last he stared with wondering eyes,
As well he might, on a huge pavilion:
'Twas clothed with stuffs of a hundred dyes,
Blue, purple, orange, pink, vermilion;
And there were quaint devices traced
All round in the Saracenic manner;
And the top, which gleamed like gold, was graced
With the drooping folds of a silken banner;
And on the poles, in silent pride,
There sat small doves of white enamel;
And the vail from the entrance was drawn aside,
And flung on the humps of a silver camel.
In short it was the sweetest thing
For a weary youth in a wood to light on:
And finer far than what a king
Built up, to prove his taste, at Brighton.
The gilded gate was all unbarred;
And, close beside it, for a guard,
There lay two dwarfs with monstrous noses,
Both fast asleep upon some roses.
Sir Rudolph entered; rich and bright
Was all that met his ravished sight;
Soft tapestries from far countries brought,
Rare cabinets with gems inwrought,
White vases of the finest mould,
And mirrors set in burnished gold.
Upon a couch a grayhound slumbered;
And a small table was encumber'd
With paintings, and an ivory lute,
And sweetmeats, and delicious fruit.
Sir Rudolph lost not time in praising;
For he, I should have said was gazing,
In attitude extremely tragic,
Upon a sight of stranger magic;
A sight, which, seen at such a season,
Might well astonish Mistress Reason,
And scare Dame Wisdom from her fences
Of rules and maxims, moods and tenses.
Beneath a crimson canopy
A lady, passing fair, was lying;
Deep sleep was on her gentle eye,
And in her slumber she was sighing
Bewitching sighs, such sighs as say
Beneath the moonlight, to a lover,
Things which the coward tongue by day
Would not, for all the world, discover:
She lay like a shape of sculptured stone,
So pale, so tranquil:—she had thrown,
For the warm evening's sultriness,
The broidered coverlet aside
And nothing was there to deck or hide
The glory of her loveliness,
But a scarf of gauze, so light and thin
You might see beneath the dazzling skin,
And watch the purple streamlets go
Through the valleys of white and stainless snow,
Or here and there a wayward tress
Which wandered out with vast assurance
From the pearls that kept the rest in durance,
And fluttered about, as if 'twould try
To lure a zephyr from the sky.
"Bertha!"—large drops of anguish came
On Rudolph's brow, as he breathed that name,—
"Oh fair and false one, wake, and fear;
I, the betrayed, the scorned, am here."
The eye moved not from its dull eclipse,
The voice came not from the fast-shut lips;
No matter! well that gazer knew
The tone of bliss, and the eyes of blue.
Sir Rudolph hid his burning face
With both his hands for a minute's space,
And all his frame in awful fashion
Was shaken by some sudden passion.
What guilty fancies o'er him ran?—
Oh, pity will be slow to guess them;
And never, save the holy man,
Did good Sir Rudolph e'er confess them
But soon his spirit you might deem
Came forth from the shade, of the fearful dream;
His cheek, though pale, was calm again.
And he spoke in peace, though he spoke in pain
"Not mine! not mine! now, Mary mother.
Aid me the sinful hope to smother!
Not mine, not mine!—I have loved thee long
Thou hast quitted me with grief and wrong.
But pure the heart of a knight should be,—
Sleep on, sleep on, thou art safe for me.
Yet shalt thou know, by a certain sign,
Whose lips have been so near to thine,
Whose eyes have looked upon thy sleep,
And turned away, and longed to weep,
Whole heart,—mourn,—madden as it will,—
Has spared thee, and adored thee, still!"
His purple mantle, rich and wide,
From his neck the trembling youth untied,
And flung it o'er those dangerous charms,
The swelling neck, and the rounded arms.
Once more he looked, once more he sighed;
And away, away, from the perilous tent,
Swift as the rush of an eagle's wing,
Or the flight of a shaft from Tartar string,
Into the wood Sir Rudolph went:
Not with more joy the school-boys run
To the gay green fields, when their task is done;
Not with more haste the members fly,
When Hume has caught the Speaker's eye.
At last the daylight came; and then
A score or two of serving men,
Supposing that some sad disaster
Had happened to their lord and master,
Went out into the wood, and found him,
Unhorsed, and with no mantle round him.
Ere he could tell his tale romantic,
The leech pronounced him clearly frantic,
So ordered him at once to bed,
And clapped a blister on his head.
Within the sound of the castle-clock
There stands a huge and rugged rock,
And I have heard the peasants say,
That the grieving groom at noon that day
Found gallant Roland, cold and stiff,
At the base of the black and beetling cliff.
Beside the rock there is an oak,
Tall, blasted by the thunder-stroke,
And I have heard the peasants say,
That there Sir Rudolph's mantle lay,
And coiled in many a deadly wreath
A venomous serpent slept beneath.
* * * * *
STANZAS, WRITTEN UNDER A DRAWING OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE
EXTRACTED FROM AN ALBUM IN DEVONSHIRE
Most beautiful!—I gaze and gaze
In silence on the glorious pile;
And the glad thoughts of other days
Come thronging back the while.
To me dim Memory makes more dear
The perfect grandeur of the shrine;
But if i stood a stranger here,
The ground were still divine.
Some awe the good and wise have felt,
As reverently their feet have trod
On any spot where man hath knelt,
To commune with his God;
By haunted spring, or fairy well,
Beneath the ruined convent's gloom,
Beside the feeble hermit's cell,
Or the false prophet's tomb.
But when was high devotion graced
With lovelier dwelling, loftier throne,
Than thus the limner's art hath traced
From the time-honored stone?
The spirit here of worship seems
To hold the heart in wondrous thrall,
And heavenward hopes and holy dreams,
Came at her voiceless call;—
At midnight, when the lonely moon
Looks from a vapor's silvery fold;
Or morning, when the sun of June
Crests the high towers with gold;
For every change of hour and form
Makes that fair scene more deeply fair;
And dusk and day-break, calm and storm,
Are all religion there.
* * * * *
A FRAGMENT OF A BALLAD: TEACHING HOW POETRY IS BEST PAID FOR
Non voglio cento scudi.—Song.
Oh say not that the minstrel's art,
The pleasant gift of verse,
Though his hopes decay, though his friends depart,
Can ever be a curse;—
Though sorrow reign within his heart,
And Penury hold his purse.
Say not his toil is profitless;—
Though he charm no rich relation,
The Fairies all his labors bless
With such remuneration,
As Mr. Hume would soon confess
Beyond his calculation.
Annuities, and three per cents,
Little cares he about them;
And India bonds, and tithes, and rents,
He rambles on without them:
But love, and noble sentiments,—
Oh, never bid him doubt them!
* * * * *
Young Florice rose from his humble bed,
And prayed as a good youth should;
And forth he sped, with a lightsome tread,
Into the neighboring wood;
He knew where the berries were ripe and red,
And where the old oak stood.
Say not his toil is profitless;—
Though he charm no rich relation,
The Fairies all his labors bless
With such remuneration,
As Mr. Hume would soon confess
Beyond his calculation.
And as he lay, at the noon of day,
Beneath the ancient tree,
A grayhaired pilgrim passed that way;
A holy man was he,
And he was wending forth to pray
At a shrine in a far countrie.
Oh, his was a weary wandering,
And a song or two might cheer him.
The pious youth began to sing,
As the ancient man drew near him;
The lark was mute as he touched the string,
And the thrush said, "Hear him, hear him!"
He sand high tales of the martyred brave;
Of the good, and pure, and just;
Who have gone into the silent grave,
In such deep faith and trust,
That the hopes and thoughts which sain and save
Spring from their buried dust.
The fair of face, and the stout of limb,
Meek maids, and grandsires hoary;
Who have sung on the cross their rapturous hymn,
As they passed to their doom of glory;—
Their radiant fame is never dim,
Nor their names erased from story.
Time spares the stone where sleep the dead
With angels watching round them;
The mourner's grief is comforted,
As he looks on the chains that bound them;
And peace is shed on the murderer's head,
And he kisses the thorns that crowned them.
Such tales he told; and the pilgrim heard
In a trance of voiceless pleasure;
For the depths of his inmost soul were stirred,
By the sad and solemn measure:
"I give thee my blessing,"—was his word;
"It is all I have of treasure!"
* * * * *
Oh say not that the minstrel's art,
The pleasant gift of verse,
Though his hopes decay, though his friends depart,
Can ever be a curse;—
Though sorrow reign within his heart,
And Penury hold his purse.
A little child came bounding by;
And he, in a fragrant bower,
Had found a gorgeous butterfly,
Rare spoil for a nursery dower,
Which, with fierce step, and eager eye,
He chased from flower to flower.
"Come hither, come hither," 'gan Florice call;
And the urchin left his fun;
So from the hall of poor Sir Paul
Retreats the baffled dun;
So Ellen parts from the village ball,
Where she leaves a heart half won
Then Florice did the child caress,
And sang his sweetest songs:
Their theme was of the gentleness,
Which to the soul belongs,
Ere yet it knows the name or dress
Of human rights and wrongs.
And of the wants which make agree
All parts of this vast plan;
How life is in whate'er we see,
And only life in man:—
What matter where the less may be,
And where the longer span?
An d how the heart grows hard without
Soft Pity's freshing dews;
And how when any life goes out
Some little pang ensues;—
Facts which great soldiers often doubt,
And wits who write reviews.
Oh, Song hath power o'er Nature's springs
Though deep the Nymph has laid them!
The child gazed, gazed, on the gilded wings,
As the next light breeze displayed them;
But he felt the while that the meanest things
Are dear to him that made them!
* * * * *
The sun went down behind the hill,
The breeze was growing colder
But there the minstrel lingered still;
And amazed the chance beholder,
Musing beside a rippling rill,
With a harp upon his shoulder.
And soon, on a graceful steed and tame,
A sleek Arabian mare,
The Lady Juliana came,
Riding to take the air,
With Lords of fame, at whose proud name
A radical would swear.
The minstrel touched his lute again.—
It was more than a Sultan's crown,
When the lady checked her bridle rein,
And lit from her palfrey down:—
What would you give for such a strain,
Rees, Longman, Orme, and Brown?
He sang of Beauty's dazzling eyes,
Of Beauty's melting tone;
And how her praise is a richer prize
Then the gems of Persia's throne:
And her love a bliss which the coldly wise
Have never, never, known.
He told how the valiant scoff at fear,
When the sob of her grief is heard;
How they couch the spear for a smile or tear
How they die for a single word;—
Things which, I own, to me appear
Exceedingly absurd.
The Lady soon had heard enough:
She turned to hear Sir Denys
Discourse, in language vastly gruff,
About his skill at Tennis—
While smooth Sir Guy described the stuff
His mistress wore at Venice.
The Lady smiled one radiant smile,
And the Lady rode away.—
There is not a lady in all our Isle,
I have heard a Poet say,
Who can listen more than a little while
To a poet's sweetest lay.
* * * * *
His mother's voice was fierce and shrill,
As she set the milk and fruit:
"Out on thine unrewarded skill,
And on thy vagrant lute;
Let the strings be broken an they will,
And the beggar lips be mute!"
Peace, peace!—the Pilgrim as he went
Forgot the minstrel's song;
But the blessing that his wan lips sent
Will guard the minstrel long;
And keep his spirit innocent,
And turn his hand from wrong.
Belike the child had little thought
Of the moral the minstrel drew;
But the dream of a deed of kindness wrought—
Brings it not peace to you?
And doth not a lesson of virture taught
Teach him that reaches too?
And if the Lady sighed no sigh
For the minstrel or his hymn;—
But when he shall lie 'neath the moonlit sky,
Or lip the goblet's brim,
What a star in the mist of memory
Her smile will be to him!
* * * * *
THE COVENANTER'S LAMENT FOR BOTHWELL BRIGG
The men of sin prevail!
Once more the prince of this world lifts his horn:
Judah is scattered, as the chaff is borne
Before the stormy gale.
Where are our brethren? where
The good and true, the terrible and fleet?
They whom we loved, with whom we sat at meat,
With whom we kneeled in prayer?
Mangled and marred they lie,
Upon the bloody pillow of their rest:
Stern Dalzell smiles, and Clavers with a jest
Spurs his fierce charger by.
So let our foes rejoice;—
We to the Lord, who hears their impious boasts.
Will call for comfort: to the God of Hosts
We will lift up our voice.
Give ear unto our song;
For we are wandering o'er our native land,
As sheep that have no shepherd: and the hand
Of wicked men is strong.
Only to thee we bow.
Our lips have drained the fury of thy cup;
And the deep murmurs of our hearts go up
To heaven for vengeance now.
Avenge—oh, not our years
Of pain and wrong; the blood of martyrs shed;
The ashes heaped upon the hoary head;
The maiden's silent tears;
The babe's bread torn away'
The harvest blasted by the war-steed's hoof;
The red flame wreathing o'er the cottage roof;
Judge not for those to-day!
Is not thine own dread rod
Mocked by the proud, thy holy book disdained,
Thy name blasphemed, thy temple's courts profaned?
Avenge thyself, O God!
Break Pharoah's iron crown;
Bind with new chains their nobles and their kings;
Wash from thy house the blood of unclean things;
And hurl their Dagon down!
Come in thine own good time!
We will abide: we have not turned from thee;
Though in a world of grief our portion be,
Of bitter grief, and crime.
Be thou our guard and guide!
Forth from the spoiler's synagogue we go.
That we may worship where the torrents flow,
And where the whirlwinds ride.
From lonely rocks and caves
We will pour forth our sacrifice of prayer.—
On, brethren, to the mountains! Seek we there
Safe temples, quiet graves!