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النشر الإلكتروني

clean,

And all the house must be swept and Beneath the shadow of her hair

The gold-bronze color of the skin
And all things set in good array ! Seems lighted by a fire within,
And the solemn porter shakes his head ; As when a burst of sunlight shines
And the answer he makes is : “ Lacka- Beneath a sombre grove of pines,
day !

A dusky splendor in the air.
We will see, as the blind man said ! ” The two small hands, that now are

pressed Alert since first the day began,

In his, seem made to be caressed,
The cock upon the village church They lie so warm and soft and still,
Looks northward from his airy perch, Like birds half hidden in a nest,
As if beyond the ken of man

Trustful, and innocent of ill.
To see the ships come sailing on, And ah ! he cannot believe his ears
And pass the Isle of Oléron,

When her melodious voice he hears And pass the Tower of Cordouan. Speaking his native Gascon tongue;

The words she utters seem to be In the church below is cold in clay Part of some poem of Goudouli, The heart that would have leaped for They are not spoken, they are sung! joy

And the Baron smiles, and says, “You O tender heart of truth and trust !

see, To see the coming of that day ;

I told you but the simple truth ; In the church below the lips are dust; Ah, you may trust the eyes of youth !” Dust are the hands, and dust the feet, That would have been so swift to meet Down in the village day by day The coming of that wayward boy. The people gossip in their way,

And stare to see the Baroness pass At night the front of the old château On Sunday morning to early Mass; Is a blaze of light above and below; And when she kneeleth down to pray, There 's a sound of wheels and hoofs in They wonder, and whisper together, and the street,

say, A cracking of whips, and scamper of " • Surely this is no heathen lass!feet,

And in course of time they learn to Bells are ringing, and horns are blown,

bless And the Baron hath come again to his The Baron and the Baroness. The Curate is waiting in the hall, And in course of time the Curate learns Most eager and alive of all

A secret so dreadful, that by turns To welcome the Baron and Baroness; He is ice and fire, he freezes and burns. But his mind is full of vague distress,

The Baton at confession hath said, For he hath read in Jesuit books That though this woman be his wife, Of those children of the wilderness, He hath wed her as the Indians wed, And now, good, simple man ! he looks He hath bought her for a gun and a To see a painted savage stride

knife ! Into the room, with shoulders bare, And the Curate replies : “ () profligate, And eagle feathers in her hair,

O Prodigal Son ! return once more And around her a robe of panther's hide. To the open arms and the open door

Of the Church, or ever it be too late. Instead, he beholds with secret shame Thank God, thy father did not live A form of beauty undefined,

To see what he could not forgive; A loveliness without a name,

On thee, so reckless and perverse, Not of degree, but more of kind ; He left his blessing, not his curse. Nor bold nor shy, nor short nor tall, But the nearer the dawn the darker the But a new mingling of them all.

night, Yes, beautiful beyond belief,

And by going wrong all things come Transfigured and transfused, he sees

right; The lady of the Pyrenees,

Things have been mended that were The daughter of the Indian chief.

worse,

own.

And the worse, the nearer they are to | As Roman actors used to say mend.

At the conclusion of a play For the sake of the living and the dead, And rose, and spread his hands abroad, Thou shalt be wed as Christians wed, And smiling bowed from side to side, And all things come to a happy end." As one who bears the palm away.

And generous was the applause and loud, O sun, that followest the night,

But less for him than for the sun, In yon blue sky, serene and pure, That even as the tale was done And pourest thine impartial light Burst from its canopy of cloud, Alike on mountain and on moor, And lit the landscape with the blaze Pause for a moment in thy course, Of afternoon on autumn days, And bless the bridegroom and the bride ! And filled the room with light, and O Gave, that from thy hidden source

made In yon mysterious mountain-side The fire of logs a painted shade. Pursuest thy wandering way alone, And leaping down its steps of stone, A sudden wind from out the west Along the meadow-lands demure Blew all its trumpets loud and shrill ; Stealest away to the Adour,

The windows rattled with the blast, Pause for a moment in thy course The oak-trees shouted as it passed, To bless the bridegroom and the bride ! And straight, as if by fear possessed,

The cloud encampment on the hill The choir is singing the matin song, Broke up, and fluttering flag and tent The doors of the church are opened Vanished into the firmament, wide,

And down the valley fled amain The people crowd, and press, and throng The rear of the retreating rain. To see the bridegroom and the bride. They enter and pass along the nave ; Only far up in the blue sky They stand upon the father's grave; A mass of clouds, like drifted snow The bells are ringing soft and slow ; Suffused with a faint Alpine glow, The living above and the dead below Was heaped together, vast and high, Give their blessing on one and twain ; On which a shattered rainbow hung, The warm wind blows from the hills of Not rising like the ruined' arch Spain,

Of some aerial aqueduct, The birds are building, the leaves are But like a roseate garland plucked green,

From an Olympian god, and flung And Baron Castine of St. Castine Aside in his triumphal march. Hath come at last to his own again.

Like prisoners from their dungeon gloom,

Like birds escaping from a snare,
FINALE.

Like school-boys at the hour of play,

All left at once the pent-up room, “Nunc plaudite !” the Student cried, And rushed into the open air ; When he had finished ; “now applaud, | And no more tales were told that day.

PART THIRD.

and grass.

PRELUDE.

Unseen, but in unbroken line,

From the great fountain-head divine The evening came ; the golden vane Through man and beast, through grain A moment in the sunset glanced, Then darkened, and then gleamed again, Howe'er we struggle, strive, and cry, As from the east the moon advanced From death there can be no escape, And touched it with a softer light; And no escape from life, alas ! While underneath, with flowing mane,

Because we cannot die, but pass Upon the sign the Red Horse pranced, From one into another shape : And galloped forth into the night. It is but into life we die. But brighter than the afternoon “ Therefore the Manichæan said That followed the dark day of rain, This simple prayer on breaking bread, And brighter than the golden vane Lest he with hasty hand or knife That glistened in the rising moon, Might wound the incarcerated life, Within the ruddy fire-light gleamed ; The soul in things that we call dead : And every separate window-pane, I did not reap thee, did not bind thee, Backed by the outer darkness, showed I did not thrash thee, did not grind A mirror, where the flamelets gleamed

thee, And flickered to and fro, and seemed Nor did I in the oven bake thee ! A bonfire lighted in the road.

It was not I, it was another

Did these things unto thee, O brother ; Amid the hospitable glow,

I only have thee, hold thee, break Like an old actor on the stage,

thee!'" With the uncertain voice of age, The singing chimney chanted low “ That birds have souls I can concede," The homely songs of long ago.

The poet cried, with glowing cheeks ;

“The flocks that from their beds of reed The voice that Ossian heard of yore, Uprising north or southward fly, When midnight winds were in his hall ; And flying write upon the sky A ghostly and appealing call,

The biforked letter of the Greeks,
A sound of days that are no more ! As hath been said by Rucellai ;
And dark as Ossian sat the Jew,

All birds that sing or chirp or cry,
And listened to the sound, and knew Even those migratory bands,
The passing of the airy hosts,

The minor poets of the air,
The gray and misty cloud of ghosts The plover, peep, and sanderling,
In their interminable flight ;

That hardly can be said to sing,
And listening muttered in his beard, But pipe along the barren sands,
With accent indistinct and weird, All these have souls akin to ours;
“Who are ye, children of the Night?” So hath the lovely race of flowers :

Thus much I grant, but nothing more. Beholding his mysterious face,

The rusty hinges of a door “Tell me,” the gay Sicilian said, Are not alive because they creak;

Why was it that in breaking bread This chimney, with its dreary roar, At supper, you bent down your head These rattling windows, do not speak !” And, musing, paused a little space, “ To me they speak,” the Jew replied ; As one who says a silent grace ?” “And in the sounds that sink and soar,

I hear the voices of a tide The Jew replied, with solemn air,, That breaks upon an unknown shore !” “ I said the Manichæan's prayer. It was his faith, - perhaps is mine, – Here the Sicilian interfered : That life in all its forms is one,

“That was your dream, then, as you And that its secret conduits run

dozed

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