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Comes like the fragrance from the lips of flowers.

Her tender limbs are still, and on her breast The cross she prayed to, ere she fell asleep, Rises and falls with the soft tide of dreams, Like a light barge safe moored.

Hyp. Which means, in prose,

She's sleeping with her mouth a little open! Vict. O, would I had the old magician's glass To see her as she lies in childlike sleep!

Hyp. And wouldst thou venture?

Vict. Ay, indeed I would!

Hyp. Thou art courageous. Hast thou e'er reflected How much lies hidden in that one word, NOW? Vict. Yes; all the awful mystery of Life!

I oft have thought, my dear Hypolito,

That could we, by some spell of magic, change

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The world and its inhabitants to stone, In the same attitudes they now are in,

What fearful glances downward might we cast

Into the hollow chasms of human life!

What groups should we behold about the death-bed, Putting to shame the group of Niobe!

What joyful welcomes, and what sad farewells! What stony tears in those congealed eyes! What visible joy or anguish in those cheeks! What bridal pomps, and what funereal shows!

What foes, like gladiators, fierce and struggling! What lovers with their marble lips together! Hyp. Ay, there it is! and, if I were in love,

That is the very point I most should dread. This magic glass, these magic spells of thine, Might tell a tale were better left untold.

For instance, they might show us thy fair cousin, The Lady Violante, bathed in tears

Of love and anger, like the maid of Colchis, Whom thou, another faithless Argonaut, Having won that golden fleece, a woman's love, Desertest for this Glauce.

Vict. Hold thy peace!

She cares not for me. She may wed another, Or go into a convent, and, thus dying,

Marry Achilles in the Elysian Fields.

Hyp. (rising). And so, good night! Good morning, I should say. (Clock strikes three.)

Hark! how the loud and ponderous mace of Time

Knocks at the golden portals of the day!

And so, once more, good night! We'll speak more largely

Of Preciosa when we meet again.

Get thee to bed, and the magician, Sleep, Shall show her to thee, in his magic glass, In all her loveliness. Good night!

[Exit.

Vict. Good night!

But not to bed; for I must read awhile.

(Throws himself into the armchair which HYPOLITO has left, and lays a large book open upon his knees.)

Must read, or sit in revery and watch

The changing color of the waves that break Upon the idle sea-shore of the mind! Visions of Fame! that once did visit me,

Making night glorious with your smile, where are ye? O, who shall give me, now that ye are gone,

Juices of those immortal plants that bloom

Upon Olympus, making us immortal?

Or teach me where that wondrous mandrake grows Whose magic root, torn from the earth with groans, At midnight hour, can scare the fiends away,

And make the mind prolific in its fancies!

I have the wish, but want the will, to act!

Souls of great men departed! Ye whose words Have come to light from the swift river of Time, Like Roman swords found in the Tagus' bed,

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Where is the strength to wield the arms ye bore? From the barred visor of Antiquity

Reflected shines the eternal light of Truth, As from a mirror! All the means of action-- The shapeless masses, the materials--

Lie everywhere about us. What we need Is the celestial fire to change the flint Into transparent crystal, bright and clear. That fire is genius! The rude peasant sits At evening in his smoky cot, and draws

With charcoal uncouth figures on the wall.

The son of genius comes, foot-sore with travel, And begs a shelter from the inclement night.

He takes the charcoal from the peasant's hand, And, by the magic of his touch at once Transfigured, all its hidden virtues shine,

And, in the eyes of the astonished clown,

It gleams a diamond! Even thus transformed, Rude popular traditions and old tales

Shine as immortal poems, at the touch

Of some poor, houseless, homeless, wandering bard, Who had but a night's lodging for his pains.

But there are brighter dreams than those of Fame, Which are the dreams of Love! Out of the heart Rises the bright ideal of these dreams,

As from some woodland fount a spirit rises

And sinks again into its silent deeps,

Ere the enamored knight can touch her robe!

'T is this ideal that the soul of man,

Like the enamored knight beside the fountain, Waits for upon the margin of Life's stream; Waits to behold her rise from the dark waters, Clad in a mortal shape! Alas! how many

Must wait in vain! The stream flows evermore,

But from its silent deeps no spirit rises! Yet I, born under a propitious star,

Have found the bright ideal of my dreams. Yes! she is ever with me. I can feel,

Here, as I sit at midnight and alone,

Her gentle breathing! on my breast can feel The pressure of her head! God's benison Rest ever on it! Close those beauteous eyes,

Sweet Sleep! and all the flowers that bloom at night With balmy lips breathe in her ears my name! (Gradually sinks asleep.)

ACT II.

SCENE I. -- PRECIOSA'S chamber. Morning. PRECIOSA and ANGELICA. Prec. Why will you go so soon? Stay yet awhile.

The poor too often turn away unheard

From hearts that shut against them with a sound That will be heard in heaven. Pray, tell me more Of your adversities. Keep nothing from me. What is your landlord's name?

Ang. The Count of Lara.

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Prec. The Count of Lara? O, beware that man! Mistrust his pity,--hold no parley with him!

And rather die an outcast in the streets

Than touch his gold.

Ang. You know him, then!

Prec. As much

As any woman may, and yet be pure.

As you would keep your name without a blemish, Beware of him!

Ang. Alas! what can I do?

I cannot choose my friends. Each word of kindness, Come whence it may, is welcome to the poor.

Prec. Make me your friend. A girl so young and fair Should have no friends but those of her own sex. What is your name?

Ang. Angelica.

Prec. That name

Was given you, that you might be an angel

To her who bore you! When your infant smile Made her home Paradise, you were her angel. O, be an angel still! She needs that smile.

So long as you are innocent, fear nothing. No one can harm you! I am a poor girl,

Whom chance has taken from the public streets. I have no other shield than mine own virtue. That is the charm which has protected me!

Amid a thousand perils, I have worn it

Here on my heart! It is my guardian angel.

Ang. (rising). I thank you for this counsel, dearest lady.

Prec. Thank me by following it. Ang. Indeed I will.

Prec. Pray, do not go. I have much more to say. Ang. My mother is alone. I dare not leave her.

Prec. Some other time, then, when we meet again. You must not go away with words alone.

(Gives her a purse.)

Take this. Would it were more. Ang. I thank you, lady.

Prec. No thanks. Tomorrow come to me again. I dance tonight,--perhaps for the last time.

But what I gain, I promise shall be yours,

If that can save you from the Count of Lara. Ang. O, my dear lady! how shall I be grateful For so much kindness?

Prec. I deserve no thanks, Thank Heaven, not me. Ang. Both Heaven and you.

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Prec. Farewell.

Remember that you come again tomorrow.

Ang. I will. And may the Blessed Virgin guard you, And all good angels. [Exit.

Prec. May they guard thee too,

And all the poor; for they have need of angels. Now bring me, dear Dolores, my basquina,

My richest maja dress,--my dancing dress, And my most precious jewels! Make me look Fairer than night e'er saw me! I've a prize

To win this day, worthy of Preciosa!

(Enter BELTRAN CRUZADO.)

Cruz. Ave Maria!

Prec. O God! my evil genius! What seekest thou here to-day? Cruz. Thyself,--my child.

Prec. What is thy will with me? Cruz. Gold! gold!

Prec. I gave thee yesterday; I have no more.

Cruz. The gold of the Busne,--give me his gold! Prec. I gave the last in charity to-day.

Cruz. That is a foolish lie. Prec. It is the truth.

Cruz. Curses upon thee! Thou art not my child! Hast thou given gold away, and not to me?

Not to thy father? To whom, then? Prec. To one

Who needs it more.

Cruz. No one can need it more. Prec. Thou art not poor.

Cruz. What, I, who lurk about

In dismal suburbs and unwholesome lanes

I, who am housed worse than the galley slave;

I, who am fed worse than the kennelled hound; I, who am clothed in rags,--Beltran Cruzado,-- Not poor!

Prec. Thou hast a stout heart and strong hands.

Thou canst supply thy wants; what wouldst thou more? Cruz. The gold of the Busne! give me his gold!

Prec. Beltran Cruzado! hear me once for all. I speak the truth. So long as I had gold,

I gave it to thee freely, at all times, Never denied thee; never had a wish

But to fulfil thine own. Now go in peace!

Be merciful, be patient, and ere long

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Thou shalt have more.

Cruz. And if I have it not,

Thou shalt no longer dwell here in rich chambers, Wear silken dresses, feed on dainty food,

And live in idleness; but go with me, Dance the Romalis in the public streets, And wander wild again o'er field and fell; For here we stay not long.

Prec. What! march again?

Cruz. Ay, with all speed. I hate the crowded town! I cannot breathe shut up within its gates

Air,--I want air, and sunshine, and blue sky, The feeling of the breeze upon my face,

The feeling of the turf beneath my feet,

And no walls but the far-off mountain-tops. Then I am free and strong,--once more myself, Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Cales!

Prec. God speed thee on thy march!--I cannot go.

Cruz. Remember who I am, and who thou art Be silent and obey! Yet one thing more. Bartolome Roman--

Prec. (with emotion). O, I beseech thee

If my obedience and blameless life,

If my humility and meek submission

In all things hitherto, can move in thee One feeling of compassion; if thou art Indeed my father, and canst trace in me One look of her who bore me, or one tone That doth remind thee of her, let it plead

In my behalf, who am a feeble girl,

Too feeble to resist, and do not force me

To wed that man! I am afraid of him!

I do not love him! On my knees I beg thee

To use no violence, nor do in haste

What cannot be undone! Cruz. O child, child, child!

Thou hast betrayed thy secret, as a bird Betrays her nest, by striving to conceal it. I will not leave thee here in the great city

To be a grandee's mistress. Make thee ready

To go with us; and until then remember

A watchful eye is on thee. [Exit. Prec. Woe is me!

I have a strange misgiving in my heart! But that one deed of charity I'll do,

Befall what may; they cannot take that from me.

SCENE II -- A room in the ARCHBISHOP'S Palace. The ARCHBISHOP and a CARDINAL seated.

Arch. Knowing how near it touched the public morals, And that our age is grown corrupt and rotten

By such excesses, we have sent to Rome, Beseeching that his Holiness would aid In curing the gross surfeit of the time, By seasonable stop put here in Spain

To bull-fights and lewd dances on the stage.

All this you know.

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Card. Know and approve.

Arch. And further,

That, by a mandate from his Holiness,

The first have been suppressed.

Card. I trust forever. It was a cruel sport.

Arch. A barbarous pastime, Disgraceful to the land that calls itself Most Catholic and Christian.

Card. Yet the people

Murmur at this; and, if the public dances

Should be condemned upon too slight occasion, Worse ills might follow than the ills we cure.

As Panem et Circenses was the cry Among the Roman populace of old, So Pan y Toros is the cry in Spain. Hence I would act advisedly herein;

And therefore have induced your Grace to see These national dances, ere we interdict them. (Enter a Servant)

Serv. The dancing-girl, and with her the musicians

Your Grace was pleased to order, wait without.

Arch. Bid them come in. Now shall your eyes behold

In what angelic, yet voluptuous shape

The Devil came to tempt Saint Anthony.

(Enter PRECIOSA, with a mantle thrown over her head. She advances slowly, in modest, half-timid attitude.)

Card. (aside). O, what a fair and ministering angel Was lost to heaven when this sweet woman fell! Prec. (kneeling before the ARCHBISHOP).

I have obeyed the order of your Grace. If I intrude upon your better hours,

I proffer this excuse, and here beseech

Your holy benediction. Arch. May God bless thee,

And lead thee to a better life. Arise.

Card. (aside). Her acts are modest, and her words discreet!

I did not look for this! Come hither, child. Is thy name Preciosa?

Prec. Thus I am called.

Card. That is a Gypsy name. Who is thy father? Prec. Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Cales.

Arch. I have a dim remembrance of that man: He was a bold and reckless character,

A sun-burnt Ishmael!

Card. Dost thou remember

Thy earlier days?

Prec. Yes; by the Darro's side

My childhood passed. I can remember still

The river, and the mountains capped with snow

The village, where, yet a little child,

I told the traveller's fortune in the street;

The smuggler's horse, the brigand and the shepherd;

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The march across the moor; the halt at noon; The red fire of the evening camp, that lighted The forest where we slept; and, further back, As in a dream or in some former life,

Gardens and palace walls. Arch. 'T is the Alhambra,

Under whose towers the Gypsy camp was pitched. But the time wears; and we would see thee dance. Prec. Your Grace shall be obeyed.

(She lays aside her mantilla. The music of the cachucha is played, and the dance begins. The ARCHBISHOP and the CARDINAL look on with gravity and an occasional frown; then make signs to each other; and, as the dance continues, become more and more pleased and excited; and at length rise from their seats, throw their caps in the air, and applaud vehemently as the scene closes.)

SCENE III. -- The Prado. A long avenue of trees leading to the gate of Atocha. On the right the dome and spires of a convent. A

fountain. Evening, DON CARLOS and HYPOLITO meeting. Don C. Hola! good evening, Don Hypolito.

Hyp. And a good evening to my friend, Don Carlos. Some lucky star has led my steps this way.

I was in search of you.

Don. C. Command me always.

Hyp. Do you remember, in Quevedo's Dreams, The miser, who, upon the Day of Judgment, Asks if his money-bags would rise?

Don C. I do;

But what of that?

Hyp. I am that wretched man.

Don C. You mean to tell me yours have risen empty? Hyp. And amen! said my Cid the Campeador.

Don C. Pray, how much need you?

Hyp. Some half-dozen ounces, Which, with due interest--

Don C. (giving his purse). What, am I a Jew

To put my moneys out at usury? Here is my purse.

Hyp. Thank you. A pretty purse.

Made by the hand of some fair Madrilena; Perhaps a keepsake.

Don C. No, 't is at your service.

Hyp. Thank you again. Lie there, good Chrysostom, And with thy golden mouth remind me often,

I am the debtor of my friend. Don C. But tell me,

Come you to-day from Alcala? Hyp. This moment.

Don C. And pray, how fares the brave Victorian?

Hyp. Indifferent well; that is to say, not well. A damsel has ensnared him with the glances

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Of her dark, roving eyes, as herdsmen catch

A steer of Andalusia with a lazo. He is in love.

Don C. And is it faring ill

To be in love?

Hyp. In his case very ill. Don C. Why so?

Hyp. For many reasons. First and foremost, Because he is in love with an ideal;

A creature of his own imagination; A child of air; an echo of his heart; And, like a lily on a river floating,

She floats upon the river of his thoughts!

Don C. A common thing with poets. But who is

This floating lily? For, in fine, some woman,

Some living woman,--not a mere ideal,--

Must wear the outward semblance of his thought. Who is it? Tell me.

Hyp. Well, it is a woman!

But, look you, from the coffer of his heart He brings forth precious jewels to adorn her, As pious priests adorn some favorite saint

With gems and gold, until at length she gleams One blaze of glory. Without these, you know, And the priest's benediction, 't is a doll.

Don C. Well, well! who is this doll? Hyp. Why, who do you think?

Don C. His cousin Violante.

Hyp. Guess again.

To ease his laboring heart, in the last storm He threw her overboard, with all her ingots. Don C. I cannot guess; so tell me who it is.

Hyp. Not I.

Don. C. Why not?

Hyp. (mysteriously). Why? Because Mari Franca

Was married four leagues out of Salamanca! Don C. Jesting aside, who is it?

Hyp. Preciosa.

Don C. Impossible! The Count of Lara tells me

She is not virtuous.

Hyp. Did I say she was?

The Roman Emperor Claudius had a wife Whose name was Messalina, as I think; Valeria Messalina was her name.

But hist! I see him yonder through the trees, Walking as in a dream.

Don C. He comes this way.

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Hyp. It has been truly said by some wise man, That money, grief, and love cannot be hidden. (Enter VICTORIAN in front.)

Vict. Where'er thy step has passed is holy ground! These groves are sacred! I behold thee walking Under these shadowy trees, where we have walked At evening, and I feel thy presence now;

Feel that the place has taken a charm from thee, And is forever hallowed.

Hyp. Mark him well!

See how he strides away with lordly air,

Like that odd guest of stone, that grim Commander

Who comes to sup with Juan in the play. Don C. What ho! Victorian!

Hyp. Wilt thou sup with us?

Vict. Hola! amigos! Faith, I did not see you. How fares Don Carlos?

Don C. At your service ever.

Vict. How is that young and green-eyed Gaditana

That you both wot of ?

Don C. Ay, soft, emerald eyes! She has gone back to Cadiz. Hyp. Ay de mi!

Vict. You are much to blame for letting her go back. A pretty girl; and in her tender eyes

Just that soft shade of green we sometimes see

In evening skies.

Hyp. But, speaking of green eyes, Are thine green?

Vict. Not a whit. Why so?

Hyp. I think

The slightest shade of green would be becoming, For thou art jealous.

Vid. No, I am not jealous. Hyp. Thou shouldst be.

Vict. Why?

Hyp. Because thou art in love.

And they who are in love are always jealous. Therefore thou shouldst be.

Vict. Marry, is that all?

Farewell; I am in haste. Farewell, Don Carlos. Thou sayest I should be jealous?

Hyp. Ay, in truth

I fear there is reason. Be upon thy guard.

I hear it whispered that the Count of Lara

Lays siege to the same citadel. Vict. Indeed!

Then he will have his labor for his pains.

Hyp. He does not think so, and Don Carlos tells me

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He boasts of his success.

Vict. How's this, Don Carlos?

Don. C. Some hints of it I heard from his own lips. He spoke but lightly of the lady's virtue,

As a gay man might speak. Vict. Death and damnation!

I'll cut his lying tongue out of his mouth, And throw it to my dog! But no, no, no! This cannot be. You jest, indeed you jest. Trifle with me no more. For otherwise

We are no longer friends. And so, fare well! [Exit.

Hyp. Now what a coil is here! The Avenging Child

Hunting the traitor Quadros to his death, And the Moor Calaynos, when he rode

To Paris for the ears of Oliver,

Were nothing to him! O hot-headed youth! But come; we will not follow. Let us join The crowd that pours into the Prado. There We shall find merrier company; I see

The Marialonzos and the Almavivas,

And fifty fans, that beckon me already.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV. -- PRECIOSA'S chamber. She is sitting, with a book in her hand, near a table, on which are flowers. A bird singing in its

cage. The COUNT OF LARA enters behind unperceived.

Prec. (reads).

All are sleeping, weary heart! Thou, thou only sleepless art! Heigho! I wish Victorian were here.

I know not what it is makes me so restless!

(The bird sings.)

Thou little prisoner with thy motley coat, That from thy vaulted, wiry dungeon singest, Like thee I am a captive, and, like thee,

I have a gentle jailer. Lack-a-day!

All are sleeping, weary heart! Thou, thou only sleepless art!

All this throbbing, all this aching, Evermore shall keep thee waking, For a heart in sorrow breaking Thinketh ever of its smart!

Thou speakest truly, poet! and methinks

More hearts are breaking in this world of ours

Than one would say. In distant villages

And solitudes remote, where winds have wafted The barbed seeds of love, or birds of passage Scattered them in their flight, do they take root, And grow in silence, and in silence perish.

Who hears the falling of the forest leaf ?

Or who takes note of every flower that dies? Heigho! I wish Victorian would come. Dolores!

(Turns to lay down her boot and perceives the COUNT.)

Ha!

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Lara. Senora, pardon me. Prec. How's this? Dolores! Lara. Pardon me--

Prec. Dolores!

Lara. Be not alarmed; I found no one in waiting. If I have been too bold--

Prec. (turning her back upon him). You are too bold!

Retire! retire, and leave me! Lara. My dear lady,

First hear me! I beseech you, let me speak!

'T is for your good I come.

Prec. (turning toward him with indignation). Begone! begone!

You are the Count of Lara, but your deeds Would make the statues of your ancestors Blush on their tombs! Is it Castilian honor, Is it Castilian pride, to steal in here

Upon a friendless girl, to do her wrong?

O shame! shame! shame! that you, a nobleman, Should be so little noble in your thoughts

As to send jewels here to win my love,

And think to buy my honor with your gold!

I have no words to tell you how I scorn you! Begone! The sight of you is hateful to me! Begone, I say!

Lara. Be calm; I will not harm you.

Prec. Because you dare not.

Lara. I dare anything!

Therefore beware! You are deceived in me. In this false world, we do not always know Who are our friends and who our enemies. We all have enemies, and all need friends. Even you, fair Preciosa, here at court

Have foes, who seek to wrong you. Prec. If to this

I owe the honor of the present visit,

You might have spared the coming. Raving spoken, Once more I beg you, leave me to myself.

Lara. I thought it but a friendly part to tell you What strange reports are current here in town. For my own self, I do not credit them;

But there are many who, not knowing you, Will lend a readier ear.

Prec. There was no need

That you should take upon yourself the duty

Of telling me these tales. Lara. Malicious tongues

Are ever busy with your name. Prec. Alas!

I've no protectors. I am a poor girl, Exposed to insults and unfeeling jests.

They wound me, yet I cannot shield myself.

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I give no cause for these reports. I live

Retired; am visited by none. Lara. By none?

O, then, indeed, you are much wronged! Prec. How mean you?

Lara. Nay, nay; I will not wound your gentle soul

By the report of idle tales. Prec. Speak out!

What are these idle tales? You need not spare me. Lara. I will deal frankly with you. Pardon me

This window, as I think, looks toward the street, And this into the Prado, does it not?

In yon high house, beyond the garden wall,-- You see the roof there just above the trees,-- There lives a friend, who told me yesterday, That on a certain night,--be not offended

If I too plainly speak,--he saw a man

Climb to your chamber window. You are silent! I would not blame you, being young and fair--

(He tries to embrace her. She starts back, and draws a dagger from her bosom.)

Prec. Beware! beware! I am a Gypsy girl!

Lay not your hand upon me. One step nearer

And I will strike!

Lara. Pray you, put up that dagger. Fear not.

Prec. I do not fear. I have a heart

In whose strength I can trust. Lara. Listen to me

I come here as your friend,--I am your friend,-- And by a single word can put a stop

To all those idle tales, and make your name

Spotless as lilies are. Here on my knees, Fair Preciosa! on my knees I swear,

I love you even to madness, and that love Has driven me to break the rules of custom, And force myself unasked into your presence. (VICTORIAN enters behind.)

Prec. Rise, Count of Lara! That is not the place

For such as you are. It becomes you not

To kneel before me. I am strangely moved

To see one of your rank thus low and humbled; For your sake I will put aside all anger,

All unkind feeling, all dislike, and speak

In gentleness, as most becomes a woman, And as my heart now prompts me. I no more Will hate you, for all hate is painful to me.

But if, without offending modesty

And that reserve which is a woman's glory, I may speak freely, I will teach my heart

To love you.

Lara. O sweet angel!

Prec. Ay, in truth,

Far better than you love yourself or me.

Lara. Give me some sign of this,--the slightest token.

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Let me but kiss your hand! Prec. Nay, come no nearer.

The words I utter are its sign and token. Misunderstand me not! Be not deceived! The love wherewith I love you is not such As you would offer me. For you come here To take from me the only thing I have,

My honor. You are wealthy, you have friends And kindred, and a thousand pleasant hopes That fill your heart with happiness; but I

Am poor, and friendless, having but one treasure, And you would take that from me, and for what? To flatter your own vanity, and make me

What you would most despise. O sir, such love, That seeks to harm me, cannot be true love. Indeed it cannot. But my love for you

Is of a different kind. It seeks your good. It is a holier feeling. It rebukes

Your earthly passion, your unchaste desires, And bids you look into your heart, and see How you do wrong that better nature in you, And grieve your soul with sin.

Lara. I swear to you,

I would not harm you; I would only love you. I would not take your honor, but restore it, And in return I ask but some slight mark

Of your affection. If indeed you love me, As you confess you do, O let me thus With this embrace--

Vict. (rushing forward). Hold! hold! This is too much.

What means this outrage?

Lara. First, what right have you

To question thus a nobleman of Spain?

Vict. I too am noble, and you are no more! Out of my sight!

Lara. Are you the master here?

Vict. Ay, here and elsewhere, when the wrong of others

Gives me the right!

Prec. (to LARA). Go! I beseech you, go!

Vict. I shall have business with you, Count, anon! Lara. You cannot come too soon!

[Exit. Prec. Victorian!

O, we have been betrayed! Vict. Ha! ha! betrayed!

'T is I have been betrayed, not we!--not we! Prec. Dost thou imagine--

Vict. I imagine nothing;

I see how 't is thou whilest the time away

When I am gone!

Prec. O speak not in that tone! It wounds me deeply.

Vict. 'T was not meant to flatter.

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Prec. Too well thou knowest the presence of that man

Is hateful to me!

Vict. Yet I saw thee stand

And listen to him, when he told his love. Prec. I did not heed his words.

Vict. Indeed thou didst,

And answeredst them with love. Prec. Hadst thou heard all--

Vict. I heard enough.

Prec. Be not so angry with me.

Vict. I am not angry; I am very calm. Prec. If thou wilt let me speak-- Vict. Nay, say no more.

I know too much already. Thou art false! I do not like these Gypsy marriages! Where is the ring I gave thee?

Prec. In my casket.

Vict. There let it rest! I would not have thee wear it: I thought thee spotless, and thou art polluted!

Prec. I call the Heavens to witness--

Vict. Nay, nay, nay!

Take not the name of Heaven upon thy lips! They are forsworn!

Prec. Victorian! dear Victorian!

Vict. I gave up all for thee; myself, my fame, My hopes of fortune, ay, my very soul!

And thou hast been my ruin! Now, go on! Laugh at my folly with thy paramour,

And, sitting on the Count of Lara's knee, Say what a poor, fond fool Victorian was! (He casts her from him and rushes out.)

Prec. And this from thee!

(Scene closes.)

SCENE V. -- The COUNT OF LARA'S rooms. Enter the COUNT. Lara. There's nothing in this world so sweet as love,

And next to love the sweetest thing is hate!

I've learned to hate, and therefore am revenged. A silly girl to play the prude with me!

The fire that I have kindled-- (Enter FRANCISCO.)

Well, Francisco, What tidings from Don Juan? Fran. Good, my lord;

He will be present.

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Lara. And the Duke of Lermos? Fran. Was not at home.

Lara. How with the rest?

Fran. I've found

The men you wanted. They will all be there, And at the given signal raise a whirlwind

Of such discordant noises, that the dance

Must cease for lack of music. Lara. Bravely done.

Ah! little dost thou dream, sweet Preciosa, What lies in wait for thee. Sleep shall not close

Thine eyes this night! Give me my cloak and sword. [Exeunt.

SCENE VI. -- A retired spot beyond the city gates. Enter VICTORIAN and HYPOLITO.

Vict. O shame! O shame! Why do I walk abroad By daylight, when the very sunshine mocks me, And voices, and familiar sights and sounds

Cry, "Hide thyself !" O what a thin partition

Doth shut out from the curious world the knowledge Of evil deeds that have been done in darkness! Disgrace has many tongues. My fears are windows, Through which all eyes seem gazing. Every face Expresses some suspicion of my shame,

And in derision seems to smile at me!

Hyp. Did I not caution thee? Did I not tell thee

I was but half persuaded of her virtue?

Vict. And yet, Hypolito, we may be wrong, We may be over-hasty in condemning!

The Count of Lara is a cursed villain.

Hyp. And therefore is she cursed, loving him.

Vid. She does not love him! 'T is for gold! for gold! Hyp. Ay, but remember, in the public streets

He shows a golden ring the Gypsy gave him, A serpent with a ruby in its mouth.

Vict. She had that ring from me! God! she is false! But I will be revenged! The hour is passed.

Where stays the coward? Hyp. Nay, he is no coward;

A villain, if thou wilt, but not a coward.

I've seen him play with swords; it is his pastime.

And therefore be not over-confident,

He'll task thy skill anon. Look, here he comes.

(Enter LARA followed by FRNANCISCO)

Lara. Good evening, gentlemen. Hyp. Good evening, Count.

Lara. I trust I have not kept you long in waiting.

Vict. Not long, and yet too long. Are you prepared?

Lara. I am.

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Hyp. It grieves me much to see this quarrel Between you, gentlemen. Is there no way Left open to accord this difference,

But you must make one with your swords? Vict. No! none!

I do entreat thee, dear Hypolito,

Stand not between me an my foe. Too long

Our tongues have spoken. Let these tongues of steel

End our debate. Upon your guard, Sir Count.

(They fight. VICTORIAN disarms the COUNT.)

Your life is mine; and what shall now withhold me

From sending your vile soul to its account? Lara. Strike! strike!

Vict. You are disarmed. I will not kill you. I will not murder you. Take up your sword.

(FRANCISCO hands the COUNT his sword, and HYPOLITO interposes.)

Hyp. Enough! Let it end here! The Count of Lara

Has shown himself a brave man, and Victorian

A generous one, as ever. Now be friends.

Put up your swords; for, to speak frankly to you, Your cause of quarrel is too slight a thing

To move you to extremes. Lara. I am content,

I sought no quarrel. A few hasty words, Spoken in the heat of blood, have led to this. Vict. Nay, something more than that.

Lara. I understand you.

Therein I did not mean to cross your path. To me the door stood open, as to others. But, had I known the girl belonged to you,

Never would I have sought to win her from you. The truth stands now revealed; she has been false To both of us.

Vict. Ay, false as hell itself !

Lara. In truth, I did not seek her; she sought me; And told me how to win her, telling me

The hours when she was oftenest left alone.

Vict. Say, can you prove this to me? O, pluck out These awful doubts, that goad me into madness! Let me know all! all! all!

Lara. You shall know all.

Here is my page, who was the messenger Between us. Question him. Was it not so, Francisco?

Fran. Ay, my lord.

Lara. If further proof

Is needful, I have here a ring she gave me. Vict. Pray let me see that ring! It is the same!

(Throws it upon the ground, and tramples upon it.)

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Thus may she perish who once wore that ring! Thus do I spurn her from me; do thus trample Her memory in the dust! O Count of Lara,

We both have been abused, been much abused! I thank you for your courtesy and frankness.

Though, like the surgeon's hand, yours gave me pain, Yet it has cured my blindness, and I thank you.

I now can see the folly I have done,

Though 't is, alas! too late. So fare you well! Tonight I leave this hateful town forever. Regard me as your friend. Once more farewell! Hyp. Farewell, Sir Count.

[Exeunt VICTORIAN and HYPOLITO. Lara. Farewell! farewell! farewell!

Thus have I cleared the field of my worst foe!

I have none else to fear; the fight is done, The citadel is stormed, the victory won! [Exit with FRANCISCO.

SCENE VII. -- A lane in the suburbs. Night. Enter CRUZADO and BARTOLOME. Cruz. And so, Bartolome, the expedition failed. But where

wast thou for the most part?

Bart. In the Guadarrama mountains, near San Ildefonso.

Cruz. And thou bringest nothing back with thee? Didst thou rob no one?

Bart. There was no one to rob, save a party of students from Segovia, who looked as if they would rob us; and a jolly little friar, who had nothing in his pockets but a missal and a loaf of bread.

Cruz. Pray, then, what brings thee back to Madrid? Bart. First tell me what keeps thee here?

Cruz. Preciosa.

Bart. And she brings me back. Hast thou forgotten thy promise?

Cruz. The two years are not passed yet. Wait patiently. The girl shall be thine.

Bart. I hear she has a Busne lover. Cruz. That is nothing.

Bart. I do not like it. I hate him,--the son of a Busne harlot. He goes in and out, and speaks with her alone, and I must stand aside, and wait his pleasure.

Cruz. Be patient, I say. Thou shalt have thy revenge. When the time comes, thou shalt waylay him. Bart. Meanwhile, show me her house.

Cruz. Come this way. But thou wilt not find her. She dances

at the play tonight.

Bart. No matter. Show me the house. [Exeunt.

SCENE VIII. -- The Theatre. The orchestra plays the cachucha. Sound of castanets behind the scenes. The curtain rises, and

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discovers PRECIOSA in the attitude of commencing the dance. The cachucha. Tumult; hisses; cries of "Brava!" and "Afuera!" She falters and pauses. The music stops. General confusion. PRECIOSA faints.

SCENE IX. -- The COUNT OF LARA'S chambers. LARA and his friends at supper. Lara. So, Caballeros, once more many thanks!

You have stood by me bravely in this matter.

Pray fill your glasses.

Don J. Did you mark, Don Luis,

How pale she looked, when first the noise began, And then stood still, with her large eyes dilated! Her nostrils spread! her lips apart! Her bosom Tumultuous as the sea!

Don L. I pitied her.

Lara. Her pride is humbled; and this very night

I mean to visit her.

Don J. Will you serenade her? Lara. No music! no more music!

Don L. Why not music? It softens many hearts. Lara. Not in the humor

She now is in. Music would madden her. Don J. Try golden cymbals.

Don L. Yes, try Don Dinero;

A mighty wooer is your Don Dinero.

Lara. To tell the truth, then, I have bribed her maid. But, Caballeros, you dislike this wine.

A bumper and away; for the night wears. A health to Preciosa.

(They rise and drink.)

All. Preciosa.

Lara. (holding up his glass).

Thou bright and flaming minister of Love! Thou wonderful magician! who hast stolen My secret from me, and mid sighs of passion

Caught from my lips, with red and fiery tongue, Her precious name! O nevermore henceforth Shall mortal lips press thine; and nevermore

A mortal name be whispered in thine ear. Go! keep my secret!

(Drinks and dashes the goblet down.)

Don J. Ite! missa est!

(Scene closes.)

SCENE X. -- Street and garden wall. Night. Enter CRUZADO and BARTOLOME.

Cruz. This is the garden wall, and above it, yonder, is her house. The window in which thou seest the light is her window. But we will not go in now.

Bart. Why not?

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Cruz. Because she is not at home.

Bart. No matter; we can wait. But how is this? The gate is bolted. (Sound of guitars and voices in a neighboring street.) Hark! There

comes her lover with his infernal serenade! Hark! SONG.

Good night! Good night, beloved! I come to watch o'er thee!

To be near thee,--to be near thee, Alone is peace for me.

Thine eyes are stars of morning, Thy lips are crimson flowers! Good night! Good night beloved, While I count the weary hours.

Cruz. They are not coming this way. Bart. Wait, they begin again.

SONG (coming nearer).

Ah! thou moon that shinest

Argent-clear above!

All night long enlighten My sweet lady-love! Moon that shinest,

All night long enlighten!

Bart. Woe be to him, if he comes this way!

Cruz. Be quiet, they are passing down the street.

SONG (dying away).

The nuns in the cloister

Sang to each other; For so many sisters

Is there not one brother!

Ay, for the partridge, mother!

The cat has run away with the partridge! Puss! puss! puss!

Bart. Follow that! follow that! Come with me. Puss! puss!

(Exeunt. On the opposite side enter the COUNT OF LARA and gentlemen, with FRANCISCO.)

Lara. The gate is fast. Over the wall, Francisco, And draw the bolt. There, so, and so, and over. Now, gentlemen, come in, and help me scale Yon balcony. How now? Her light still burns. Move warily. Make fast the gate, Francisco.

(Exeunt. Re-enter CRUZADO and BARTOLOME.)

Bart. They went in at the gate. Hark! I hear them in the garden. (Tries the gate.) Bolted again! Vive Cristo! Follow me over the wall. (They climb the wall.)

SCENE XI. -- PRECIOSA'S bedchamber. Midnight. She is sleeping in an armchair, in an undress. DOLORES watching her.

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Dol. She sleeps at last!

(Opens the window, and listens.)

All silent in the street, And in the garden. Hark!

Prec. (in her sleep). I must go hence!

Give me my cloak!

Dol. He comes! I hear his footsteps.

Prec. Go tell them that I cannot dance tonight; I am too ill! Look at me! See the fever

That burns upon my cheek! I must go hence. I am too weak to dance.

(Signal from the garden.)

Dol. (from the window). Who's there? Voice (from below). A friend.

Dol. I will undo the door. Wait till I come.

Prec. I must go hence. I pray you do not harm me! Shame! shame! to treat a feeble woman thus!

Be you but kind, I will do all things for you. I'm ready now,--give me my castanets.

Where is Victorian? Oh, those hateful lamps! They glare upon me like an evil eye.

I cannot stay. Hark! how they mock at me!

They hiss at me like serpents! Save me! save me!

(She wakes.)

How late is it, Dolores? Dol. It is midnight.

Prec. We must be patient. Smooth this pillow for me. (She sleeps again. Noise from the garden, and voices.) Voice. Muera!

Another Voice. O villains! villains! Lara. So! have at you!

Voice. Take that!

Lara. O, I am wounded!

Dol. (shutting the window). Jesu Maria!

ACT III.

SCENE I. -- A cross-road through a wood. In the background a distant village spire. VICTORIAN and HYPOLITO, as travelling students, with guitars, sitting under the trees. HYPOLITO plays and sings.

SONG.

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Ah, Love!

Perjured, false, treacherous Love!

Enemy

Of all that mankind may not rue!

Most untrue

To him who keeps most faith with thee.

Woe is me!

The falcon has the eyes of the dove.

Ah, Love!

Perjured, false, treacherous Love!

Vict. Yes, Love is ever busy with his shuttle, Is ever weaving into life's dull warp

Bright, gorgeous flowers and scenes Arcadian;

Hanging our gloomy prison-house about With tapestries, that make its walls dilate In never-ending vistas of delight.

Hyp. Thinking to walk in those Arcadian pastures, Thou hast run thy noble head against the wall. SONG (continued).

Thy deceits

Give us clearly to comprehend, Whither tend

All thy pleasures, all thy sweets!

They are cheats,

Thorns below and flowers above.

Ah, Love!

Perjured, false, treacherous Love!

Vict. A very pretty song. I thank thee for it. Hyp. It suits thy case.

Vict. Indeed, I think it does. What wise man wrote it?

Hyp. Lopez Maldonado.

Vict. In truth, a pretty song.

Hyp. With much truth in it.

I hope thou wilt profit by it; and in earnest

Try to forget this lady of thy love.

Vict. I will forget her! All dear recollections Pressed in my heart, like flowers within a book, Shall be torn out, and scattered to the winds!

I will forget her! But perhaps hereafter,

When she shall learn how heartless is the world, A voice within her will repeat my name,

And she will say, "He was indeed my friend!" O, would I were a soldier, not a scholar,

That the loud march, the deafening beat of drums, The shattering blast of the brass-throated trumpet, The din of arms, the onslaught and the storm,

And a swift death, might make me deaf forever

To the upbraidings of this foolish heart!

Hyp. Then let that foolish heart upbraid no more! To conquer love, one need but will to conquer.

Vict. Yet, good Hypolito, it is in vain

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I throw into Oblivion's sea the sword

That pierces me; for, like Excalibar,

With gemmed and flashing hilt, it will not sink. There rises from below a hand that grasp it, And waves it in the air; and wailing voices

Are heard along the shore. Hyp. And yet at last

Down sank Excalibar to rise no more. This is not well. In truth, it vexes me. Instead of whistling to the steeds of Time,

To make them jog on merrily with life's burden, Like a dead weight thou hangest on the wheels. Thou art too young, too full of lusty health

To talk of dying.

Vict. Yet I fain would die!

To go through life, unloving and unloved; To feel that thirst and hunger of the soul

We cannot still; that longing, that wild impulse, And struggle after something we have not

And cannot have; the effort to be strong

And, like the Spartan boy, to smile, and smile, While secret wounds do bleed beneath our cloaks All this the dead feel not,--the dead alone!

Would I were with them! Hyp. We shall all be soon.

Vict. It cannot be too soon; for I am weary

Of the bewildering masquerade of Life,

Where strangers walk as friends, and friends as strangers; Where whispers overheard betray false hearts;

And through the mazes of the crowd we chase Some form of loveliness, that smiles, and beckons, And cheats us with fair words, only to leave us

A mockery and a jest; maddened,--confused,-- Not knowing friend from foe.

Hyp. Why seek to know?

Enjoy the merry shrove-tide of thy youth! Take each fair mask for what it gives itself, Nor strive to look beneath it.

Vict. I confess,

That were the wiser part. But Hope no longer Comforts my soul. I am a wretched man, Much like a poor and shipwrecked mariner, Who, struggling to climb up into the boat,

Has both his bruised and bleeding hands cut off, And sinks again into the weltering sea,

Helpless and hopeless!

Hyp. Yet thou shalt not perish.

The strength of thine own arm is thy salvation. Above thy head, through rifted clouds, there shines A glorious star. Be patient. Trust thy star!

(Sound of a village belt in the distance.)

Vict. Ave Maria! I hear the sacristan

Ringing the chimes from yonder village belfry! A solemn sound, that echoes far and wide Over the red roofs of the cottages,

And bids the laboring hind a-field, the shepherd,

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Guarding his flock, the lonely muleteer,

And all the crowd in village streets, stand still, And breathe a prayer unto the blessed Virgin!

Hyp. Amen! amen! Not half a league from hence

The village lies.

Vict. This path will lead us to it,

Over the wheat-fields, where the shadows sail Across the running sea, now green, now blue, And, like an idle mariner on the main, Whistles the quail. Come, let us hasten on.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II. -- Public square in the village of Guadarrama. The Ave Maria still tolling. A crowd of villagers, with their hats in their hands, as if in prayer. In front, a group of Gypsies. The bell rings a merrier peal. A Gypsy dance. Enter PANCHO, followed by PEDRO CRESPO.

Pancho. Make room, ye vagabonds and Gypsy thieves! Make room for the Alcalde and for me!

Pedro C. Keep silence all! I have an edict here From our most gracious lord, the King of Spain, Jerusalem, and the Canary Islands,

Which I shall publish in the market-place. Open your ears and listen!

(Enter the PADRE CURA at the door of his cottage.)

Padre Cura,

Good day! and, pray you, hear this edict read.

Padre C. Good day, and God be with you! Pray, what is it? Pedro C. An act of banishment against the Gypsies! (Agitation and murmurs in the crowd.)

Pancho. Silence!

Pedro C. (reads). "I hereby order and command,

That the Egyptian an Chaldean strangers,

Known by the name of Gypsies, shall henceforth

Be banished from the realm, as vagabonds

And beggars; and if, after seventy days,

Any be found within our kingdom's bounds, They shall receive a hundred lashes each;

The second time, shall have their ears cut off;

The third, be slaves for life to him who takes them, Or burnt as heretics. Signed, I, the King."

Vile miscreants and creatures unbaptized! You hear the law! Obey and disappear!

Pancho. And if in seventy days you are not gone, Dead or alive I make you all my slaves.

(The Gypsies go out in confusion, showing signs of fear and discontent. PANCHO follows.)

Padre C. A righteous law! A very righteous law! Pray you, sit down.

Pedro C. I thank you heartily.

(They seat themselves on a bench at the PADRE CURAS door. Sound of guitars heard at a distance, approaching during the dia-

logue which follows.)

A very righteous judgment, as you say.

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Now tell me, Padre Cura,--you know all things, How came these Gypsies into Spain?

Padre C. Why, look you;

They came with Hercules from Palestine,

And hence are thieves and vagrants, Sir Alcalde, As the Simoniacs from Simon Magus,

And, look you, as Fray Jayme Bleda says, There are a hundred marks to prove a Moor Is not a Christian, so 't is with the Gypsies. They never marry, never go to mass,

Never baptize their children, nor keep Lent, Nor see the inside of a church,--nor--nor--

Pedro C. Good reasons, good, substantial reasons all!

No matter for the other ninety-five.

They should be burnt, I see it plain enough, They should be bunt.

(Enter VICTORIAN and HYPOLITO playing.)

Padre C. And pray, whom have we here?

Pedro C. More vagrants! By Saint Lazarus, more vagrants! Hyp. Good evening, gentlemen! Is this Guadarrama? Padre C. Yes, Guadarrama, and good evening to you.

Hyp. We seek the Padre Cura of the village;

And, judging from your dress and reverend mien, You must be he.

Padre C. I am. Pray, what's your pleasure?

Hyp. We are poor students, traveling in vacation. You know this mark?

(Touching the wooden spoon in his hat-band.

Padre C. (joyfully). Ay, know it, and have worn it.

Pedro C. (aside). Soup-eaters! by the mass! The worst of vagrants!

And there's no law against them. Sir, your servant. [Exit.

Padre C. Your servant, Pedro Crespo.

Hyp. Padre Cura,

Front the first moment I beheld your face, I said within myself, "This is the man!" There is a certain something in your looks,

A certain scholar-like and studious something,-- You understand,--which cannot be mistaken; Which marks you as a very learned man,

In fine, as one of us.

Vict. (aside). What impudence!

Hyp. As we approached, I said to my companion, "That is the Padre Cura; mark my words!"

Meaning your Grace. "The other man," said I, Who sits so awkwardly upon the bench,

Must be the sacristan." Padre C. Ah! said you so?

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Why, that was Pedro Crespo, the alcalde!

Hyp. Indeed! you much astonish me! His air

Was not so full of dignity and grace

As an alcalde's should be. Padre C. That is true.

He's out of humor with some vagrant Gypsies, Who have their camp here in the neighborhood. There's nothing so undignified as anger.

Hyp. The Padre Cura will excuse our boldness, If, from his well-known hospitality,

We crave a lodging for the night. Padre C. I pray you!

You do me honor! I am but too happy

To have such guests beneath my humble roof. It is not often that I have occasion

To speak with scholars; and Emollit mores, Nec sinit esse feros, Cicero says.

Hyp. 'T is Ovid, is it not? Padre C. No, Cicero.

Hyp. Your Grace is right. You are the better scholar. Now what a dunce was I to think it Ovid!

But hang me if it is not! (Aside.)

Padre C. Pass this way.

He was a very great man, was Cicero! Pray you, go in, go in! no ceremony.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III. -- A room in the PADRE CURA'S house. Enter the PADRE and HYPOLITO.

Padre C. So then, Senor, you come from Alcala. I am glad to hear it. It was there I studied.

Hyp. And left behind an honored name, no doubt. How may I call your Grace?

Padre C. Geronimo

De Santillana, at your Honor's service.

Hyp. Descended from the Marquis Santillana? From the distinguished poet?

Padre C. From the Marquis, Not from the poet.

Hyp. Why, they were the same.

Let me embrace you! O some lucky star

Has brought me hither! Yet once more!--once more! Your name is ever green in Alcala,

And our professor, when we are unruly, Will shake his hoary head, and say, "Alas! It was not so in Santillana's time!"

Padre C. I did not think my name remembered there. Hyp. More than remembered; it is idolized.

Padre C. Of what professor speak you? Hyp. Timoneda.

Padre C. I don't remember any Timoneda.

Hyp. A grave and sombre man, whose beetling brow

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O'erhangs the rushing current of his speech

As rocks o'er rivers hang. Have you forgotten?

Padre C. Indeed, I have. O, those were pleasant days, Those college days! I ne'er shall see the like!

I had not buried then so many hopes!

I had not buried then so many friends!

I've turned my back on what was then before me; And the bright faces of my young companions Are wrinkled like my own, or are no more.

Do you remember Cueva? Hyp. Cueva? Cueva?

Padre C. Fool that I am! He was before your time. You're a mere boy, and I am an old man.

Hyp. I should not like to try my strength with you.

Padre C. Well, well. But I forget; you must be hungry. Martina! ho! Martina! 'T is my niece.

(Enter MARTINA.)

Hyp. You may be proud of such a niece as that. I wish I had a niece. Emollit mores.

(Aside.)

He was a very great man, was Cicero! Your servant, fair Martina.

Mart. Servant, sir.

Padre C. This gentleman is hungry. See thou to it. Let us have supper.

Mart. 'T will be ready soon.

Padre C. And bring a bottle of my Val-de-Penas

Out of the cellar. Stay; I'll go myself. Pray you. Senor, excuse me. [Exit. Hyp. Hist! Martina!

One word with you. Bless me I what handsome eyes! To-day there have been Gypsies in the village.

Is it not so?

Mart. There have been Gypsies here. Hyp. Yes, and have told your fortune. Mart. (embarrassed). Told my fortune?

Hyp. Yes, yes; I know they did. Give me your hand. I'll tell you what they said. They said,--they said,

The shepherd boy that loved you was a clown, And him you should not marry. Was it not? Mart. (surprised). How know you that?

Hyp. O, I know more than that,

What a soft, little hand! And then they said, A cavalier from court, handsome, and tall

And rich, should come one day to marry you, And you should be a lady. Was it not!

He has arrived, the handsome cavalier.

(Tries to kiss her. She runs off. Enter VICTORIAN, with a letter.)

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Vict. The muleteer has come. Hyp. So soon?

Vict. I found him

Sitting at supper by the tavern door, And, from a pitcher that he held aloft

His whole arm's length, drinking the blood-red wine. Hyp. What news from Court?

Vict. He brought this letter only.

(Reads.)

O cursed perfidy! Why did I let

That lying tongue deceive me! Preciosa, Sweet Preciosa! how art thou avenged!

Hyp. What news is this, that makes thy cheek turn pale, And thy hand tremble?

Vict. O, most infamous!

The Count of Lara is a worthless villain! Hyp. That is no news, forsooth.

Vict. He strove in vain

To steal from me the jewel of my soul, The love of Preciosa. Not succeeding,

He swore to be revenged; and set on foot

A plot to ruin her, which has succeeded.

She has been hissed and hooted from the stage, Her reputation stained by slanderous lies

Too foul to speak of; and, once more a beggar, She roams a wanderer over God's green earth Housing with Gypsies!

Hyp. To renew again

The Age of Gold, and make the shepherd swains Desperate with love, like Gasper Gil's Diana. Redit et Virgo!

Vict. Dear Hypolito,

How have I wronged that meek, confiding heart!

I will go seek for her; and with my tears

Wash out the wrong I've done her! Hyp. O beware!

Act not that folly o'er again. Vict. Ay, folly,

Delusion, madness, call it what thou wilt,

I will confess my weakness,--I still love her! Still fondly love her!

(Enter the PADRE CURA.)

Hyp. Tell us, Padre Cura,

Who are these Gypsies in the neighborhood? Padre C. Beltran Cruzado and his crew.

Vict. Kind Heaven,

I thank thee! She is found! is found again!

Hyp. And have they with them a pale, beautiful girl, Called Preciosa?

Padre C. Ay, a pretty girl.

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The gentleman seems moved. Hyp. Yes, moved with hunger,

He is half famished with this long day's journey.

Padre C. Then, pray you, come this way. The supper waits. [Exeunt.

SCENE IV. -- A post-house on the road to Segovia, not far from the village of Guadarrama. Enter CHISPA, cracking a whip, and singing the cachucha.

Chispa. Halloo! Don Fulano! Let us have horses, and quickly. Alas, poor Chispa! what a dog's life dost thou lead! I thought, when I left my old master Victorian, the student, to serve my new master Don Carlos, the gentleman, that I, too, should lead the life of a gentleman; should go to bed early, and get up late. For when the abbot plays cards, what can you expect of the friars? But, in running away from the thunder, I have run into the lightning. Here I am in hot chase after my master and his Gypsy girl. And a good beginning of the week it is, as he said who was hanged on Monday morning.

(Enter DON CARLOS)

Don C. Are not the horses ready yet?

Chispa. I should think not, for the hostler seems to be asleep. Ho! within there! Horses! horses! horses! (He knocks at the gate with

his whip, and enter MOSQUITO, putting on his jacket.)

Mosq. Pray, have a little patience. I'm not a musket.

Chispa. Health and pistareens! I'm glad to see you come on dancing, padre! Pray, what's the news? Mosq. You cannot have fresh horses; because there are none.

Chispa. Cachiporra! Throw that bone to another dog. Do I look like your aunt? Mosq. No; she has a beard.

Chispa. Go to! go to!

Mosq. Are you from Madrid?

Chispa. Yes; and going to Estramadura. Get us horses. Mosq. What's the news at Court?

Chispa. Why, the latest news is, that I am going to set up a coach, and I have already bought the whip.

(Strikes him round the legs.)

Mosq. Oh! oh! You hurt me!

Don C. Enough of this folly. Let us have horses. (Gives money to MOSQUITO.) It is almost dark; and we are in haste. But tell me,

has a band of Gypsies passed this way of late? Mosq. Yes; and they are still in the neighborhood. Don C. And where?

Mosq. Across the fields yonder, in the woods near Guadarrama.

[Exit.

Don C. Now this is lucky. We will visit the Gypsy camp.

Chispa. Are you not afraid of the evil eye? Have you a stag's horn with you?

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Don C. Fear not. We will pass the night at the village.

Chispa. And sleep like the Squires of Hernan Daza, nine under one blanket.

Don C. I hope we may find the Preciosa among them.

Chispa. Among the Squires?

Don C. No; among the Gypsies, blockhead!

Chispa. I hope we may; for we are giving ourselves trouble enough on her account. Don't you think so? However, there is no catch-ing trout without wetting one's trousers. Yonder come the horses. [Exeunt.

SCENE V. -- The Gypsy camp in the forest. Night. Gypsies working at a forge. Others playing cards by the firelight. Gypsies (at the forge sing).

On the top of a mountain I stand, With a crown of red gold in my hand, Wild Moors come trooping over the lea

O how from their fury shall I flee, flee, flee? O how from their fury shall I flee?

First Gypsy (playing). Down with your John-Dorados, my pigeon.

Down with your John-Dorados, and let us make an end.

Gypsies (at the forge sing).

Loud sang the Spanish cavalier, And thus his ditty ran;

God send the Gypsy lassie here, And not the Gypsy man.

First Gypsy (playing). There you are in your morocco!

Second Gypsy. One more game. The Alcalde's doves against the

Padre Cura's new moon.

First Gypsy. Have at you, Chirelin.

Gypsies (at the forge sing).

At midnight, when the moon began

To show her silver flame,

There came to him no Gypsy man, The Gypsy lassie came.

(Enter BELTRAN CRUZADO.)

Cruz. Come hither, Murcigalleros and Rastilleros; leave work, leave play; listen to your orders for the night. (Speaking to the right.)

You will get you to the village, mark you, by the stone cross. Gypsies. Ay!

Cruz. (to the left). And you, by the pole with the hermit's head upon it.

Gypsies. Ay!

Cruz. As soon as you see the planets are out, in with you, and be busy with the ten commandments, under the sly, and Saint Martin asleep. D'ye hear?

Gypsies. Ay!

Cruz. Keep your lanterns open, and, if you see a goblin or a papagayo, take to your trampers. Vineyards and Dancing John is the

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word. Am I comprehended? Gypsies. Ay! ay!

Cruz. Away, then!

(Exeunt severally. CRUZADO walks up the stage, and disappears among the trees. Enter PRECIOSA.)

Prec. How strangely gleams through the gigantic trees The red light of the forge! Wild, beckoning shadows Stalk through the forest, ever and anon

Rising and bending with the flickering flame, Then flitting into darkness! So within me

Strange hopes and fears do beckon to each other, My brightest hopes giving dark fears a being

As the light does the shadow. Woe is me How still it is about me, and how lonely! (BARTOLOME rushes in.)

Bart. Ho! Preciosa! Prec. O Bartolome!

Thou here?

Bart. Lo! I am here.

Prec. Whence comest thou?

Bart. From the rough ridges of the wild Sierra, From caverns in the rocks, from hunger, thirst, And fever! Like a wild wolf to the sheepfold. Come I for thee, my lamb.

Prec. O touch me not!

The Count of Lara's blood is on thy hands! The Count of Lara's curse is on thy soul!

Do not come near me! Pray, begone from here

Thou art in danger! They have set a price

Upon thy head!

Bart. Ay, and I've wandered long

Among the mountains; and for many days

Have seen no human face, save the rough swineherd's. The wind and rain have been my sole companions.

I shouted to them from the rocks thy name, And the loud echo sent it back to me,

Till I grew mad. I could not stay from thee, And I am here! Betray me, if thou wilt. Prec. Betray thee? I betray thee?

Bart. Preciosa!

I come for thee! for thee I thus brave death! Fly with me o'er the borders of this realm! Fly with me!

Prec. Speak of that no more. I cannot. I'm thine no longer.

Bart. O, recall the time

When we were children! how we played together, How we grew up together; how we plighted

Our hearts unto each other, even in childhood!

Fulfil thy promise, for the hour has come.

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I'm hunted from the kingdom, like a wolf !

Fulfil thy promise.

Prec. 'T was my father's promise.

Not mine. I never gave my heart to thee, Nor promised thee my hand!

Bart. False tongue of woman! And heart more false!

Prec. Nay, listen unto me.

I will speak frankly. I have never loved thee; I cannot love thee. This is not my fault,

It is my destiny. Thou art a man

Restless and violent. What wouldst thou with me, A feeble girl, who have not long to live,

Whose heart is broken? Seek another wife, Better than I, and fairer; and let not

Thy rash and headlong moods estrange her from thee. Thou art unhappy in this hopeless passion,

I never sought thy love; never did aught To make thee love me. Yet I pity thee, And most of all I pity thy wild heart,

That hurries thee to crimes and deeds of blood, Beware, beware of that.

Bart. For thy dear sake

I will be gentle. Thou shalt teach me patience.

Prec. Then take this farewell, and depart in peace. Thou must not linger here.

Bart. Come, come with me. Prec. Hark! I hear footsteps. Bart. I entreat thee, come! Prec. Away! It is in vain. Bart. Wilt thou not come? Prec. Never!

Bart. Then woe, eternal woe, upon thee! Thou shalt not be another's. Thou shalt die.

[Exit.

Prec. All holy angels keep me in this hour! Spirit of her who bore me, look upon me! Mother of God, the glorified, protect me! Christ and the saints, be merciful unto me!

Yet why should I fear death? What is it to die? To leave all disappointment, care, and sorrow,

To leave all falsehood, treachery, and unkindness, All ignominy, suffering, and despair,

And be at rest forever! O dull heart,

Be of good cheer! When thou shalt cease to beat, Then shalt thou cease to suffer and complain! (Enter VICTORIAN and HYPOLITO behind.)

Vict. 'T is she! Behold, how beautiful she stands

Under the tent-like trees! Hyp. A woodland nymph!

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Vict. I pray thee, stand aside. Leave me.

Hyp. Be wary.

Do not betray thyself too soon.

Vict. (disguising his voice). Hist! Gypsy!

Prec. (aside, with emotion).

That voice! that voice from heaven! O speak again! Who is it calls?

Vict. A friend.

Prec. (aside). 'T is he! 'T is he!

I thank thee, Heaven, that thou hast heard my prayer, And sent me this protector! Now be strong,

Be strong, my heart! I must dissemble here. False friend or true?

Vict. A true friend to the true;

Fear not; come hither. So; can you tell fortunes? Prec. Not in the dark. Come nearer to the fire. Give me your hand. It is not crossed, I see.

Vict. (putting a piece of gold into her hand). There is the

cross.

Prec. Is 't silver? Vict. No, 't is gold.

Prec. There's a fair lady at the Court, who loves you, And for yourself alone.

Vict. Fie! the old story!

Tell me a better fortune for my money; Not this old woman's tale!

Prec. You are passionate;

And this same passionate humor in your blood

Has marred your fortune. Yes; I see it now; The line of life is crossed by many marks.

Shame! shame! O you have wronged the maid who loved you! How could you do it?

Vict. I never loved a maid;

For she I loved was then a maid no more. Prec. How know you that?

Vict. A little bird in the air

Whispered the secret.

Prec. There, take back your gold!

Your hand is cold, like a deceiver's hand! There is no blessing in its charity!

Make her your wife, for you have been abused; And you shall mend your fortunes, mending hers.

Vict. (aside). How like an angel's speaks the tongue of woman,

When pleading in another's cause her own!

That is a pretty ring upon your finger. Pray give it me. (Tries to take the ring.) Prec. No; never from my hand

Shall that be taken!

Vict. Why, 't is but a ring.

I'll give it back to you; or, if I keep it,

Will give you gold to buy you twenty such. Prec. Why would you have this ring?

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Vict. A traveller's fancy,

A whim, and nothing more. I would fain keep it

As a memento of the Gypsy camp

In Guadarrama, and the fortune-teller

Who sent me back to wed a widowed maid. Pray, let me have the ring.

Prec. No, never! never!

I will not part with it, even when I die;

But bid my nurse fold my pale fingers thus, That it may not fall from them. 'T is a token Of a beloved friend, who is no more.

Vict. How? dead?

Prec. Yes; dead to me; and worse than dead. He is estranged! And yet I keep this ring.

I will rise with it from my grave hereafter, To prove to him that I was never false.

Vict. (aside). Be still, my swelling heart! one moment, still!

Why, 't is the folly of a lovesick girl. Come, give it me, or I will say 't is mine, And that you stole it.

Prec. O, you will not dare To utter such a falsehood! Vict. I not dare?

Look in my face, and say if there is aught

I have not dared, I would not dare for thee!

(She rushes into his arms.)

Prec. 'T is thou! 't is thou! Yes; yes; my heart's elected! My dearest-dear Victorian! my soul's heaven!

Where hast thou been so long? Why didst thou leave me? Vict. Ask me not now, my dearest Preciosa.

Let me forget we ever have been parted! Prec. Hadst thou not come--

Vict. I pray thee, do not chide me!

Prec. I should have perished here among these Gypsies.

Vict. Forgive me, sweet! for what I made thee suffer. Think'st thou this heart could feel a moment's joy, Thou being absent? O, believe it not!

Indeed, since that sad hour I have not slept, For thinking of the wrong I did to thee

Dost thou forgive me? Say, wilt thou forgive me?

Prec. I have forgiven thee. Ere those words of anger

Were in the book of Heaven writ down against thee, I had forgiven thee.

Vict. I'm the veriest fool

That walks the earth, to have believed thee false. It was the Count of Lara--

Prec. That bad man

Has worked me harm enough. Hast thou not heard-- Vict. I have heard all. And yet speak on, speak on!

Let me but hear thy voice, and I am happy; For every tone, like some sweet incantation, Calls up the buried past to plead for me.

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Speak, my beloved, speak into my heart, Whatever fills and agitates thine own. (They walk aside.)

Hyp. All gentle quarrels in the pastoral poets, All passionate love scenes in the best romances, All chaste embraces on the public stage,

All soft adventures, which the liberal stars

Have winked at, as the natural course of things, Have been surpassed here by my friend, the student, And this sweet Gypsy lass, fair Preciosa!

Prec. Senor Hypolito! I kiss your hand. Pray, shall I tell your fortune?

Hyp. Not tonight;

For, should you treat me as you did Victorian, And send me back to marry maids forlorn,

My wedding day would last from now till Christmas.

Chispa (within). What ho! the Gypsies, ho! Beltran Cruzado!

Halloo! halloo! halloo! halloo!

(Enters booted, with a whip and lantern.

Vict. What now

Why such a fearful din? Hast thou been robbed?

Chispa. Ay, robbed and murdered; and good evening to you, My worthy masters.

Vict. Speak; what brings thee here?

CHISPA (to PRECIOSA).

Good news from Court; good news! Beltran Cruzado, The Count of the Cales, is not your father,

But your true father has returned to Spain Laden with wealth. You are no more a Gypsy. Vict. Strange as a Moorish tale!

Chispa. And we have all

Been drinking at the tavern to your health, As wells drink in November, when it rains. Vict. Where is the gentlemen?

Chispa. As the old song says, His body is in Segovia, His soul is in Madrid,

Prec. Is this a dream? O, if it be a dream, Let me sleep on, and do not wake me yet! Repeat thy story! Say I'm not deceived!

Say that I do not dream! I am awake;

This is the Gypsy camp; this is Victorian, And this his friend, Hypolito! Speak! speak! Let me not wake and find it all a dream!

Vict. It is a dream, sweet child! a waking dream, A blissful certainty, a vision bright

Of that rare happiness, which even on earth Heaven gives to those it loves. Now art thou rich, As thou wast ever beautiful and good;

And I am now the beggar.

Prec. (giving him her hand). I have still

A hand to give.

Chispa (aside). And I have two to take.

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I've heard my grandmother say, that Heaven gives almonds

To those who have no teeth. That's nuts to crack, I've teeth to spare, but where shall I find almonds? Vict. What more of this strange story?

Chispa. Nothing more.

Your friend, Don Carlos, is now at the village

Showing to Pedro Crespo, the Alcalde,

The proofs of what I tell you. The old hag,

Who stole you in your childhood, has confessed; And probably they'll hang her for the crime,

To make the celebration more complete. Vict. No; let it be a day of general joy;

Fortune comes well to all, that comes not late. Now let us join Don Carlos.

Hyp. So farewell,

The student's wandering life! Sweet serenades, Sung under ladies' windows in the night,

And all that makes vacation beautiful! To you, ye cloistered shades of Alcala, To you, ye radiant visions of romance,

Written in books, but here surpassed by truth, The Bachelor Hypolito returns,

And leaves the Gypsy with the Spanish Student.

SCENE VI. -- A pass in the Guadarrama mountains. Early morning. A muleteer crosses the stage, sitting sideways on his mule and

lighting a paper cigar with flint and steel.

SONG.

If thou art sleeping, maiden, Awake and open thy door,

'T is the break of day, and we must away, O'er meadow, and mount, and moor. Wait not to find thy slippers,

But come with thy naked feet;

We shall have to pass through the dewy grass,

And waters wide and fleet.

(Disappears down the pass. Enter a Monk. A shepherd appears on the rocks above.)

Monk. Ave Maria, gratia plena. Ola! good man! Shep. Ola!

Monk. Is this the road to Segovia? Shep. It is, your reverence.

Monk. How far is it? Shep. I do not know.

Monk. What is that yonder in the valley? Shep. San Ildefonso.

Monk. A long way to breakfast.

Shep. Ay, marry.

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Monk. Are there robbers in these mountains? Shep. Yes, and worse than that.

Monk. What? Shep. Wolves.

Monk. Santa Maria! Come with me to San Ildefonso, and thou shalt be well rewarded. Shep. What wilt thou give me?

Monk. An Agnus Dei and my benediction.

(They disappear. A mounted Contrabandista passes, wrapped in his cloak, and a gun at his saddle-bow. He goes down the pass sing-

ing.)

SONG.

Worn with speed is my good steed, And I march me hurried, worried; Onward, caballito mio,

With the white star in thy forehead! Onward, for here comes the Ronda, And I hear their rifles crack!

Ay, jaleo! Ay, ay, jaleo!

Ay, jaleo! They cross our track.

(Song dies away. Enter PRECIOSA, on horseback, attended by

VICTORIAN, HYPOLITO, DON CARLOS, and CHISPA, on foot, and armed.)

Vict. This is the highest point. Here let us rest. See, Preciosa, see how all about us

Kneeling, like hooded friars, the misty mountains

Receive the benediction of the sun! O glorious sight!

Prec. Most beautiful indeed! Hyp. Most wonderful!

Vict. And in the vale below,

Where yonder steeples flash like lifted halberds,

San Ildefonso, from its noisy belfries, Sends up a salutation to the morn,

As if an army smote their brazen shields, And shouted victory!

Prec. And which way lies Segovia?

Vict. At a great distance yonder. Dost thou not see it?

Prec. No. I do not see it.

Vict. The merest flaw that dents the horizon's edge.

There, yonder!

Hyp. 'T is a notable old town, Boasting an ancient Roman aqueduct, And an Alcazar, builded by the Moors,

Wherein, you may remember, poor Gil Blas

Was fed on Pan del Rey. O, many a time

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Out of its grated windows have I looked Hundreds of feet plumb down to the Eresma, That, like a serpent through the valley creeping, Glides at its foot.

Prec. O yes! I see it now,

Yet rather with my heart than with mine eyes, So faint it is. And all my thoughts sail thither, Freighted with prayers and hopes, and forward urged Against all stress of accident, as in

The Eastern Tale, against the wind and tide

Great ships were drawn to the Magnetic Mountains, And there were wrecked, and perished in the sea! (She weeps.)

Vict. O gentle spirit! Thou didst bear unmoved

Blasts of adversity and frosts of fate!

But the first ray of sunshine that falls on thee Melts thee to tears! O, let thy weary heart Lean upon mine! and it shall faint no more, Nor thirst, nor hunger; but be comforted

And filled with my affection.

Prec. Stay no longer!

My father waits. Methinks I see him there,

Now looking from the window, and now watching

Each sound of wheels or footfall in the street, And saying, "Hark! she comes!" O father! father! (They descend the pass. CHISPA remains behind.)

Chispa. I have a father, too, but he is a dead one. Alas and alack-a-day. Poor was I born, and poor do I remain. I neither win nor

lose. Thus I was, through the world, half the time on foot, and the other half walking; and always as merry as a thunder-storm in the night. And so we plough along, as the fly said to the ox. Who knows what may happen? Patience, and shuffle the cards! I am not yet so bald that you can see my brains; and perhaps, after all, I shall some day go to Rome, and come back Saint Peter. Benedicite! [Exit.

(A pause. Then enter BARTOLOME wildly, as if in pursuit, with a carbine in his hand.)

Bart. They passed this way! I hear their horses' hoofs! Yonder I see them! Come, sweet caramillo,

This serenade shall be the Gypsy's last!

(Fires down the pass.)

Ha! ha! Well whistled, my sweet caramillo!

Well whistled!--I have missed her!--O my God!

(The shot is returned. BARTOLOME falls).

****************

THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS THE BELFRY OF BRUGES CARILLON

In the ancient town of Bruges, In the quaint old Flemish city,

As the evening shades descended, Low and loud and sweetly blended, Low at times and loud at times,

And changing like a poet's rhymes, Rang the beautiful wild chimes From the Belfry in the market

Of the ancient town of Bruges.

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Then, with deep sonorous clangor Calmly answering their sweet anger, When the wrangling bells had ended, Slowly struck the clock eleven,

And, from out the silent heaven, Silence on the town descended. Silence, silence everywhere,

On the earth and in the air,

Save that footsteps here and there Of some burgher home returning, By the street lamps faintly burning, For a moment woke the echoes

Of the ancient town of Bruges. But amid my broken slumbers

Still I heard those magic numbers, As they loud proclaimed the flight And stolen marches of the night; Till their chimes in sweet collision

Mingled with each wandering vision, Mingled with the fortune-telling Gypsy-bands of dreams and fancies, Which amid the waste expanses

Of the silent land of trances

Have their solitary dwelling;

All else seemed asleep in Bruges, In the quaint old Flemish city.

And I thought how like these chimes

Are the poet's airy rhymes,

All his rhymes and roundelays,

His conceits, and songs, and ditties, From the belfry of his brain, Scattered downward, though in vain, On the roofs and stones of cities! For by night the drowsy ear

Under its curtains cannot hear, And by day men go their ways, Hearing the music as they pass, But deeming it no more, alas! Than the hollow sound of brass. Yet perchance a sleepless wight, Lodging at some humble inn

In the narrow lanes of life,

When the dusk and hush of night

Shut out the incessant din

Of daylight and its toil and strife, May listen with a calm delight

To the poet's melodies,

Till he hears, or dreams he hears, Intermingled with the song, Thoughts that he has cherished long; Hears amid the chime and singing The bells of his own village ringing,

And wakes, and finds his slumberous eyes

Wet with most delicious tears. Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Ble, Listening with a wild delight

To the chimes that, through the night

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Bang their changes from the Belfry Of that quaint old Flemish city. THE BELFRY OF BRUGES

In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown; Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the town. As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood,

And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of widowhood.

Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and vapors gray, Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the landscape lay.

At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, here and there, Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascending, vanished, ghost-like, into air. Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning hour,

But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient tower.

From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swallows wild and high; And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more distant than the sky. Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the olden times,

With their strange, unearthly changes rang the melancholy chimes,

Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sing in the choir; And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a friar. Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain;

They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again; All the Foresters of Flanders,--mighty Baldwin Bras de Fer, Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy Philip, Guy de Dampierre.

I beheld the pageants splendid that adorned those days of old;

Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who bore the Fleece of Gold

Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden argosies; Ministers from twenty nations; more than royal pomp and ease. I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground;

I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk and hound;

And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept with the queen,

And the armed guard around them, and the sword unsheathed between. I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold,

Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold; Saw the light at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving west, Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon's nest. And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote; And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin's throat;

Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dike of sand, "I am Roland! I am Roland! there is victory in the land!"

Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city's roar

Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once more. Hours had passed away like minutes; and, before I was aware,

Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined square. A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE

This is the place. Stand still, my steed, Let me review the scene,

And summon from the shadowy Past

The forms that once have been. The Past and Present here unite Beneath Time's flowing tide,

Like footprints hidden by a brook, But seen on either side.

Here runs the highway to the town; There the green lane descends,

Through which I walked to church with thee, O gentlest of my friends!

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The shadow of the linden-trees

Lay moving on the grass;

Between them and the moving boughs, A shadow, thou didst pass.

Thy dress was like the lilies, And thy heart as pure as they: One of God's holy messengers Did walk with me that day.

I saw the branches of the trees Bend down thy touch to meet, The clover-blossoms in the grass Rise up to kiss thy feet,

"Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, Of earth and folly born!"

Solemnly sang the village choir

On that sweet Sabbath morn.

Through the closed blinds the golden sun

Poured in a dusty beam, Like the celestial ladder seen By Jacob in his dream.

And ever and anon, the wind, Sweet-scented with the hay,

Turned o'er the hymn-book's fluttering leaves

That on the window lay.

Long was the good man's sermon, Yet it seemed not so to me;

For he spake of Ruth the beautiful, And still I thought of thee.

Long was the prayer he uttered, Yet it seemed not so to me;

For in my heart I prayed with him, And still I thought of thee.

But now, alas! the place seems changed; Thou art no longer here:

Part of the sunshine of the scene

With thee did disappear.

Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart, Like pine-trees dark and high,

Subdue the light of noon, and breathe

A low and ceaseless sigh;

This memory brightens o'er the past, As when the sun, concealed

Behind some cloud that near us hangs

Shines on a distant field.

THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms; But front their silent pipes no anthem pealing Startles the villages with strange alarms.

Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, When the death-angel touches those swift keys What loud lament and dismal Miserere

Will mingle with their awful symphonies I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, The cries of agony, the endless groan,

Which, through the ages that have gone before us, In long reverberations reach our own.

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On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song, And loud, amid the universal clamor,

O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din, And Aztec priests upon their teocallis

Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin; The tumult of each sacked and burning village; The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns; The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage;

The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, The rattling musketry, the clashing blade;

And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, The diapason of the cannonade.

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, With such accursed instruments as these,

Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, And jarrest the celestial harmonies?

Were half the power, that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth, bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error,

There were no need of arsenals or forts:

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred! And every nation, that should lift again

Its hand against a brother, on its forehead Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain! Down the dark future, through long generations,

The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease; And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,

I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!" Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals

The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies! But beautiful as songs of the immortals,

The holy melodies of love arise. NUREMBERG

In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadowlands

Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands. Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song, Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng: Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold,

Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old;

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme, That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime. In the courtyard of the castle, bound with many an iron hand, Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde's hand;

On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian's praise. Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art:

Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart; And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone,

By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own.

In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust,

And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust; In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare,

Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air.

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Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart, Lived and labored Albrecht Durer, the Evangelist of Art; Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land. Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies; Dead he is not, but departed,--for the artist never dies.

Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair,

That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air! Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and dismal lanes, Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude poetic strains.

From remote and sunless suburbs came they to the friendly guild, Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the swallows build. As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme,

And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil's chime;

Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom

In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom.

Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft, Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laughed. But his house is now an alehouse, with a nicely sanded floor,

And a garland in the window, and his face above the door; Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman's song,

As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great beard white and long. And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care, Quaffing ale from pewter tankard; in the master's antique chair. Vanished is the ancient splendor, and before my dreamy eye

Wave these mingled shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry.

Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's regard; But thy painter, Albrecht Durer, and Hans Sachs thy cobbler-bard. Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away,

As he paced thy streets and courtyards, sang in thought his careless lay:

Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of the soil,

The nobility of labor,--the long pedigree of toil.

THE NORMAN BARON Dans les moments de la vie ou la reflexion devient plus calme et plus profonde, ou l'interet et l'avarice parlent moins haut que la raison, dans les instants de chagrin domestique, de maladie, et de peril de mort, les nobles se repentirent de posseder des serfs, comme d'une chose peu agreable a Dieu, qui avait cree tous les hommes a son image.--THIERRY, Conquete de l'Angleterre.

In his chamber, weak and dying, Was the Norman baron lying;

Loud, without, the tempest thundered

And the castle-turret shook,

In this fight was Death the gainer,

Spite of vassal and retainer,

And the lands his sires had plundered, Written in the Doomsday Book.

By his bed a monk was seated, Who in humble voice repeated Many a prayer and paternoster,

From the missal on his knee; And, amid the tempest pealing, Sounds of bells came faintly stealing,

Bells, that from the neighboring kloster

Rang for the Nativity.

In the hall, the serf and vassal

Held, that night their Christmas wassail; Many a carol, old and saintly,

Sang the minstrels and the waits; And so loud these Saxon gleemen

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Sang to slaves the songs of freemen, That the storm was heard but faintly, Knocking at the castle-gates.

Till at length the lays they chanted Reached the chamber terror-haunted, Where the monk, with accents holy,

Whispered at the baron's ear. Tears upon his eyelids glistened, As he paused awhile and listened, And the dying baron slowly

Turned his weary head to hear. "Wassail for the kingly stranger Born and cradled in a manger! King, like David, priest, like Aaron,

Christ is born to set us free!"

And the lightning showed the sainted

Figures on the casement painted,

And exclaimed the shuddering baron, "Miserere, Domine!"

In that hour of deep contrition

He beheld, with clearer vision,

Through all outward show and fashion, Justice, the Avenger, rise.

All the pomp of earth had vanished, Falsehood and deceit were banished, Reason spake more loud than passion,

And the truth wore no disguise. Every vassal of his banner,

Every serf born to his manor,

All those wronged and wretched creatures, By his hand were freed again.

And, as on the sacred missal He recorded their dismissal, Death relaxed his iron features,

And the monk replied, "Amen!" Many centuries have been numbered Since in death the baron slumbered By the convent's sculptured portal,

Mingling with the common dust: But the good deed, through the ages Living in historic pages,

Brighter grows and gleams immortal, Unconsumed by moth or rust

RAIN IN SUMMER

How beautiful is the rain! After the dust and heat,

In the broad and fiery street,

In the narrow lane,

How beautiful is the rain!

How it clatters along the roofs, Like the tramp of hoofs

How it gushes and struggles out

From the throat of the overflowing spout!

Across the window-pane

It pours and pours; And swift and wide, With a muddy tide,

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Like a river down the gutter roars

The rain, the welcome rain!

The sick man from his chamber looks

At the twisted brooks; He can feel the cool Breath of each little pool; His fevered brain

Grows calm again,

And he breathes a blessing on the rain. From the neighboring school

Come the boys,

With more than their wonted noise

And commotion;

And down the wet streets

Sail their mimic fleets, Till the treacherous pool Ingulfs them in its whirling And turbulent ocean.

In the country, on every side, Where far and wide,

Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, Stretches the plain,

To the dry grass and the drier grain

How welcome is the rain! In the furrowed land

The toilsome and patient oxen stand; Lifting the yoke encumbered head, With their dilated nostrils spread, They silently inhale

The clover-scented gale, And the vapors that arise

From the well-watered and smoking soil. For this rest in the furrow after toil

Their large and lustrous eyes

Seem to thank the Lord,

More than man's spoken word. Near at hand,

From under the sheltering trees, The farmer sees

His pastures, and his fields of grain,

As they bend their tops

To the numberless beating drops

Of the incessant rain. He counts it as no sin That he sees therein

Only his own thrift and gain. These, and far more than these, The Poet sees!

He can behold

Aquarius old

Walking the fenceless fields of air;

And from each ample fold

Of the clouds about him rolled

Scattering everywhere

The showery rain,

As the farmer scatters his grain. He can behold

Things manifold

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That have not yet been wholly told,-- Have not been wholly sung nor said. For his thought, that never stops, Follows the water-drops

Down to the graves of the dead,

Down through chasms and gulfs profound, To the dreary fountain-head

Of lakes and rivers under ground;

And sees them, when the rain is done, On the bridge of colors seven Climbing up once more to heaven, Opposite the setting sun.

Thus the Seer, With vision clear,

Sees forms appear and disappear, In the perpetual round of strange, Mysterious change

From birth to death, from death to birth, From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth; Till glimpses more sublime

Of things, unseen before,

Unto his wondering eyes reveal

The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel

Turning forevermore

In the rapid and rushing river of Time. TO A CHILD

Dear child! how radiant on thy mother's knee, With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles, Thou gazest at the painted tiles,

Whose figures grace,

With many a grotesque form and face. The ancient chimney of thy nursery! The lady with the gay macaw,

The dancing girl, the grave bashaw

With bearded lip and chin; And, leaning idly o'er his gate, Beneath the imperial fan of state, The Chinese mandarin.

With what a look of proud command

Thou shakest in thy little hand

The coral rattle with its silver bells, Making a merry tune!

Thousands of years in Indian seas That coral grew, by slow degrees, Until some deadly and wild monsoon Dashed it on Coromandel's sand! Those silver bells

Reposed of yore, As shapeless ore,

Far down in the deep-sunken wells

Of darksome mines,

In some obscure and sunless place, Beneath huge Chimborazo's base, Or Potosi's o'erhanging pines

And thus for thee, O little child, Through many a danger and escape, The tall ships passed the stormy cape;

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For thee in foreign lands remote, Beneath a burning, tropic clime,

The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat, Himself as swift and wild,

In falling, clutched the frail arbute, The fibres of whose shallow root, Uplifted from the soil, betrayed The silver veins beneath it laid,

The buried treasures of the miser, Time. But, lo! thy door is left ajar!

Thou hearest footsteps from afar! And, at the sound,

Thou turnest round

With quick and questioning eyes, Like one, who, in a foreign land, Beholds on every hand

Some source of wonder and surprise! And, restlessly, impatiently,

Thou strivest, strugglest, to be free, The four walls of thy nursery

Are now like prison walls to thee. No more thy mother's smiles,

No more the painted tiles,

Delight thee, nor the playthings on the floor, That won thy little, beating heart before; Thou strugglest for the open door.

Through these once solitary halls

Thy pattering footstep falls. The sound of thy merry voice Makes the old walls

Jubilant, and they rejoice

With the joy of thy young heart, O'er the light of whose gladness No shadows of sadness

From the sombre background of memory start. Once, ah, once, within these walls,

One whom memory oft recalls, The Father of his Country, dwelt.

And yonder meadows broad and damp The fires of the besieging camp Encircled with a burning belt.

Up and down these echoing stairs, Heavy with the weight of cares, Sounded his majestic tread;

Yes, within this very room

Sat he in those hours of gloom, Weary both in heart and head.

But what are these grave thoughts to thee? Out, out! into the open air!

Thy only dream is liberty,

Thou carest little how or where. I see thee eager at thy play,

Now shouting to the apples on the tree, With cheeks as round and red as they; And now among the yellow stalks, Among the flowering shrubs and plants, As restless as the bee.

Along the garden walks,

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The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels I trace; And see at every turn how they efface

Whole villages of sand-roofed tents, That rise like golden domes

Above the cavernous and secret homes

Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants. Ah, cruel little Tamerlane,

Who, with thy dreadful reign, Dost persecute and overwhelm

These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm!

What! tired already! with those suppliant looks, And voice more beautiful than a poet's books, Or murmuring sound of water as it flows. Thou comest back to parley with repose;

This rustic seat in the old apple-tree, With its o'erhanging golden canopy

Of leaves illuminate with autumnal hues, And shining with the argent light of dews, Shall for a season be our place of rest. Beneath us, like an oriole's pendent nest,

From which the laughing birds have taken wing, By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant swing. Dreamlike the waters of the river gleam;

A sailless vessel drops adown the stream, And like it, to a sea as wide and deep,

Thou driftest gently down the tides of sleep. O child! O newborn denizen

Of life's great city! on thy head The glory of the morn is shed, Like a celestial benison!

Here at the portal thou dost stand, And with thy little hand

Thou openest the mysterious gate Into the future's undiscovered land. I see its valves expand,

As at the touch of Fate!

Into those realms of love and hate, Into that darkness blank and drear, By some prophetic feeling taught,

I launch the bold, adventurous thought, Freighted with hope and fear;

As upon subterranean streams, In caverns unexplored and dark,

Men sometimes launch a fragile bark,

Laden with flickering fire,

And watch its swift-receding beams, Until at length they disappear,

And in the distant dark expire.

By what astrology of fear or hope

Dare I to cast thy horoscope!

Like the new moon thy life appears; A little strip of silver light,

And widening outward into night The shadowy disk of future years; And yet upon its outer rim,

A luminous circle, faint and dim, And scarcely visible to us here,

Rounds and completes the perfect sphere;

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A prophecy and intimation,

A pale and feeble adumbration,

Of the great world of light, that lies

Behind all human destinies.

Ah! if thy fate, with anguish fraught, Should be to wet the dusty soil

With the hot tears and sweat of toil,-- To struggle with imperious thought, Until the overburdened brain,

Weary with labor, faint with pain, Like a jarred pendulum, retain Only its motion, not its power,-- Remember, in that perilous hour,

When most afflicted and oppressed, From labor there shall come forth rest. And if a more auspicious fate

On thy advancing steps await

Still let it ever be thy pride

To linger by the laborer's side; With words of sympathy or song To cheer the dreary march along Of the great army of the poor,

O'er desert sand, o'er dangerous moor. Nor to thyself the task shall be

Without reward; for thou shalt learn

The wisdom early to discern

True beauty in utility;

As great Pythagoras of yore,

Standing beside the blacksmith's door, And hearing the hammers, as they smote The anvils with a different note,

Stole from the varying tones, that hung

Vibrant on every iron tongue, The secret of the sounding wire. And formed the seven-chorded lyre. Enough! I will not play the Seer;

I will no longer strive to ope

The mystic volume, where appear The herald Hope, forerunning Fear, And Fear, the pursuivant of Hope. Thy destiny remains untold;

For, like Acestes' shaft of old,

The swift thought kindles as it flies,

And burns to ashes in the skies.

THE OCCULTATION OF ORION

I saw, as in a dream sublime,

The balance in the hand of Time.

O'er East and West its beam impended; And day, with all its hours of light,

Was slowly sinking out of sight, While, opposite, the scale of night Silently with the stars ascended. Like the astrologers of eld,

In that bright vision I beheld Greater and deeper mysteries. I saw, with its celestial keys,

Its chords of air, its frets of fire,

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The Samian's great Aeolian lyre, Rising through all its sevenfold bars, From earth unto the fixed stars.

And through the dewy atmosphere, Not only could I see, but hear,

Its wondrous and harmonious strings, In sweet vibration, sphere by sphere, From Dian's circle light and near, Onward to vaster and wider rings.

Where, chanting through his beard of snows, Majestic, mournful, Saturn goes,

And down the sunless realms of space Reverberates the thunder of his bass. Beneath the sky's triumphal arch

This music sounded like a march, And with its chorus seemed to be Preluding some great tragedy. Sirius was rising in the east;

And, slow ascending one by one, The kindling constellations shone. Begirt with many a blazing star, Stood the great giant Algebar, Orion, hunter of the beast!

His sword hung gleaming by his side, And, on his arm, the lion's hide Scattered across the midnight air

The golden radiance of its hair.

The moon was pallid, but not faint; And beautiful as some fair saint, Serenely moving on her way

In hours of trial and dismay.

As if she heard the voice of God, Unharmed with naked feet she trod Upon the hot and burning stars,

As on the glowing coals and bars,

That were to prove her strength, and try

Her holiness and her purity.

Thus moving on, with silent pace, And triumph in her sweet, pale face, She reached the station of Orion. Aghast he stood in strange alarm!

And suddenly from his outstretched arm

Down fell the red skin of the lion

Into the river at his feet.

His mighty club no longer beat The forehead of the bull; but he Reeled as of yore beside the sea, When, blinded by Oenopion,

He sought the blacksmith at his forge, And, climbing up the mountain gorge, Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun. Then, through the silence overhead, An angel with a trumpet said, "Forevermore, forevermore,

The reign of violence is o'er!" And, like an instrument that flings Its music on another's strings,

The trumpet of the angel cast

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Upon the heavenly lyre its blast,

And on from sphere to sphere the words Re-echoed down the burning chords,-- "Forevermore, forevermore,

The reign of violence is o'er!" THE BRIDGE

I stood on the bridge at midnight,

As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o'er the city, Behind the dark church-tower.

I saw her bright reflection In the waters under me, Like a golden goblet falling And sinking into the sea.

And far in the hazy distance

Of that lovely night in June,

The blaze of the flaming furnace Gleamed redder than the moon. Among the long, black rafters

The wavering shadows lay,

And the current that came from the ocean

Seemed to lift and bear them away;

As, sweeping and eddying through them, Rose the belated tide,

And, streaming into the moonlight,

The seaweed floated wide. And like those waters rushing Among the wooden piers,

A flood of thoughts came o'er me

That filled my eyes with tears.

How often, oh, how often,

In the days that had gone by,

I had stood on that bridge at midnight

And gazed on that wave and sky! How often, oh, how often,

I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O'er the ocean wild and wide!

For my heart was hot and restless, And my life was full of care,

And the burden laid upon me Seemed greater than I could bear. But now it has fallen from me,

It is buried in the sea;

And only the sorrow of others Throws its shadow over me. Yet whenever I cross the river

On its bridge with wooden piers,

Like the odor of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years. And I think how many thousands

Of care-encumbered men,

Each bearing his burden of sorrow, Have crossed the bridge since then.

I see the long procession

Still passing to and fro,

The young heart hot and restless,

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And the old subdued and slow! And forever and forever,

As long as the river flows,

As long as the heart has passions, As long as life has woes;

The moon and its broken reflection

And its shadows shall appear,

As the symbol of love in heaven, And its wavering image here.

TO THE DRIVING CLOUD

Gloomy and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty Omahas;

Gloomy and dark as the driving cloud, whose name thou hast taken! Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through the city's Narrow and populous streets, as once by the margin of rivers

Stalked those birds unknown, that have left us only their footprints. What, in a few short years, will remain of thy race but the footprints?

How canst thou walk these streets, who hast trod the green turf of the prairies! How canst thou breathe this air, who hast breathed the sweet air of the mountains! Ah! 't is in vain that with lordly looks of disdain thou dost challenge

Looks of disdain in return, and question these walls and these pavements, Claiming the soil for thy hunting-grounds, while downtrodden millions Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its caverns that they, too, Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim its division!

Back, then, back to thy woods in the regions west of the Wabash! There as a monarch thou reignest. In autumn the leaves of the maple Pave the floors of thy palace-halls with gold, and in summer

Pine-trees waft through its chambers the odorous breath of their branches. There thou art strong and great, a hero, a tamer of horses!

There thou chasest the stately stag on the banks of the Elkhorn, Or by the roar of the Running-Water, or where the Omaha

Calls thee, and leaps through the wild ravine like a brave of the

Blackfeet!

Hark! what murmurs arise from the heart of those mountainous deserts? Is it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the mighty Behemoth,

Who, unharmed, on his tusks once caught the bolts of the thunder, And now lurks in his lair to destroy the race of the red man?

Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the Crows and the Foxes, Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the tread of Behemoth, Lo! the big thunder-canoe, that steadily breasts the Missouri's Merciless current! and yonder, afar on the prairies, the camp-fires

Gleam through the night; and the cloud of dust in the gray of the daybreak

Marks not the buffalo's track, nor the Mandan's dexterous horse-race; It is a caravan, whitening the desert where dwell the Camanches!

Ha! how the breath of these Saxons and Celts, like the blast of the east-wind, Drifts evermore to the west the scanty smokes of thy wigwams!

SONGS

THE DAY IS DONE

The day is done, and the darkness

Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me That my soul cannot resist:

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A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay,

That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time. For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor; And tonight I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart,

As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease,

Still heard in his soul the music

Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet

The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume

The poem of thy choice,

And lend to the rhyme of the poet

The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music

And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away. AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY

The day is ending,

The night is descending; The marsh is frozen,

The river dead.

Through clouds like ashes

The red sun flashes On village windows That glimmer red.

The snow recommences; The buried fences

Mark no longer

The road o'er the plain; While through the meadows, Like fearful shadows,

Slowly passes

A funeral train. The bell is pealing, And every feeling Within me responds To the dismal knell;

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Shadows are trailing, My heart is bewailing And tolling within Like a funeral bell.

TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK

Welcome, my old friend, Welcome to a foreign fireside, While the sullen gales of autumn Shake the windows.

The ungrateful world

Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee, Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, First I met thee.

There are marks of age,

There are thumb-marks on thy margin, Made by hands that clasped thee rudely, At the alehouse.

Soiled and dull thou art;

Yellow are thy time-worn pages, As the russet, rain-molested Leaves of autumn.

Thou art stained with wine Scattered from hilarious goblets, As the leaves with the libations Of Olympus.

Yet dost thou recall

Days departed, half-forgotten, When in dreamy youth I wandered By the Baltic,--

When I paused to hear

The old ballad of King Christian Shouted from suburban taverns In the twilight.

Thou recallest bards,

Who in solitary chambers,

And with hearts by passion wasted, Wrote thy pages.

Thou recallest homes

Where thy songs of love and friendship Made the gloomy Northern winter Bright as summer.

Once some ancient Scald,

In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, Chanted staves of these old ballads To the Vikings.

Once in Elsinore,

At the court of old King Hamlet Yorick and his boon companions Sang these ditties.

Once Prince Frederick's Guard

Sang them in their smoky barracks;-- Suddenly the English cannon

Joined the chorus!

Peasants in the field,

Sailors on the roaring ocean, Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics, All have sung them.

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Thou hast been their friend;

They, alas! have left thee friendless! Yet at least by one warm fireside Art thou welcome.

And, as swallows build

In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys, So thy twittering songs shall nestle

In my bosom,--

Quiet, close, and warm, Sheltered from all molestation, And recalling by their voices Youth and travel.

WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID

Vogelweid the Minnesinger,

When he left this world of ours, Laid his body in the cloister,

Under Wurtzburg's minster towers. And he gave the monks his treasures, Gave them all with this behest:

They should feed the birds at noontide

Daily on his place of rest;

Saying, "From these wandering minstrels

I have learned the art of song; Let me now repay the lessons

They have taught so well and long." Thus the bard of love departed;

And, fulfilling his desire,

On his tomb the birds were feasted

By the children of the choir.

Day by day, o'er tower and turret, In foul weather and in fair,

Day by day, in vaster numbers, Flocked the poets of the air.

On the tree whose heavy branches

Overshadowed all the place,

On the pavement, on the tombstone, On the poet's sculptured face,

On the cross-bars of each window, On the lintel of each door,

They renewed the War of Wartburg, Which the bard had fought before. There they sang their merry carols, Sang their lauds on every side;

And the name their voices uttered

Was the name of Vogelweid. Till at length the portly abbot Murmured, "Why this waste of food? Be it changed to loaves henceforward For our tasting brotherhood."

Then in vain o'er tower and turret, From the walls and woodland nests, When the minster bells rang noontide, Gathered the unwelcome guests.

Then in vain, with cries discordant, Clamorous round the Gothic spire, Screamed the feathered Minnesingers For the children of the choir.

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Time has long effaced the inscriptions

On the cloister's funeral stones, And tradition only tells us

Where repose the poet's bones. But around the vast cathedral,

By sweet echoes multiplied, Still the birds repeat the legend, And the name of Vogelweid. DRINKING SONG

INSCRIPTION FOR AN ANTIQUE PITCHER

Come, old friend! sit down and listen! From the pitcher, placed between us, How the waters laugh and glisten

In the head of old Silenus! Old Silenus, bloated, drunken, Led by his inebriate Satyrs;

On his breast his head is sunken, Vacantly he leers and chatters.

Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow; Ivy crowns that brow supernal

As the forehead of Apollo,

And possessing youth eternal. Round about him, fair Bacchantes, Bearing cymbals, flutes, and thyrses, Wild from Naxian groves, or Zante's Vineyards, sing delirious verses.

Thus he won, through all the nations, Bloodless victories, and the farmer Bore, as trophies and oblations,

Vines for banners, ploughs for armor. Judged by no o'erzealous rigor,

Much this mystic throng expresses: Bacchus was the type of vigor,

And Silenus of excesses. These are ancient ethnic revels, Of a faith long since forsaken;

Now the Satyrs, changed to devils, Frighten mortals wine-o'ertaken. Now to rivulets from the mountains Point the rods of fortune-tellers;

Youth perpetual dwells in fountains,-- Not in flasks, and casks, and cellars. Claudius, though he sang of flagons

And huge tankards filled with Rhenish, From that fiery blood of dragons

Never would his own replenish. Even Redi, though he chaunted Bacchus in the Tuscan valleys, Never drank the wine he vaunted In his dithyrambic sallies.

Then with water fill the pitcher Wreathed about with classic fables; Ne'er Falernian threw a richer

Light upon Lucullus' tables.

Come, old friend, sit down and listen

As it passes thus between us,

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How its wavelets laugh and glisten

In the head of old Silenus!

THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS

L'eternite est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit sans cesse ces deux mots seulement dans le silence des tombeaux: "Toujours!

jamais! Jamais! toujours!"--JACQUES BRIDAINE.

Somewhat back from the village street Stands the old-fashioned country-seat. Across its antique portico

Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw; And from its station in the hall

An ancient timepiece says to all,-- "Forever--never! Never--forever!"

Halfway up the stairs it stands,

And points and beckons with its hands

From its case of massive oak,

Like a monk, who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!

With sorrowful voice to all who pass,-- "Forever--never!

Never--forever!"

By day its voice is low and light; But in the silent dead of night, Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, It echoes along the vacant hall, Along the ceiling, along the floor,

And seems to say, at each chamber-door,-- "Forever--never!

Never--forever!"

Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Through days of death and days of birth, Through every swift vicissitude

Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, And as if, like God, it all things saw,

It calmly repeats those words of awe,-- "Forever--never!

Never--forever!"

In that mansion used to be

Free-hearted Hospitality;

His great fires up the chimney roared;

The stranger feasted at his board; But, like the skeleton at the feast,

That warning timepiece never ceased,-- "Forever--never!

Never--forever!"

There groups of merry children played, There youths and maidens dreaming strayed; O precious hours! O golden prime,

And affluence of love and time!

Even as a Miser counts his gold,

Those hours the ancient timepiece told,-- "Forever--never!