THE hour was late; the fire burned low, The Landlord's eyes were closed in sleep, And near the story's end a deep Sonorous sound at times was heard, As when the distant bagpipes blow. At this all laughed; the Landlord stirred, As one awaking from a swound, And, gazing anxiously around, Protested that he had not slept, But only shut his eyes, and kept His ears attentive to each word.
Then all arose, and said "Good Night." Alone remained the drowsy Squire To rake the embers of the fire,
And quench the waning parlour light; While from the windows, here and there. The scattered lamps a moment gleamed, And the illumined hostel seemed The constellation of the Bear, Downward, athwart the misty air, Sinking and setting toward the sun. Far off the village clock struck one.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR
BETWEEN the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour.
I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet.
From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall-stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair.
A whisper, and then a silence: Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise.
A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall! By three doors left unguarded They enter my castle wall!
They climb up into my turret
O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape they surround me; They seem to be everywhere.
They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse Tower on the Rhine!
Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old moustache as I am Is not a match for you all?
I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeon In the round-tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away!
UNDER Mount Etna he lies,
It is slumber, it is not death; For he struggles at times to arise, And above him the lurid skies Are hot with his fiery breath. The crags are piled on his breast, The earth is heaped on his head; But the groans of his wild unrest, Though smothered and half suppressed, Are heard, and he is not dead. And the nations far away
Are watching with eager eyes; They talk together and say, "To-morrow, perhaps to-day, Enceladus will arise!"
And the old gods, the austere Oppressors in their strength, Stand aghast and white with fear At the ominous sounds they hear, And tremble, and mutter, "At length!"
Ah me! for the land that is sown With the harvest of despair! Where the burning cinders, blown From the lips of the overthrown Enceladus, fill the air.
Where ashes are heaped in drifts
Over vineyard and field and town, Whenever he starts and lifts
His head through the blackened rifts Of the crags that keep him down.
See, see! the red light shines! 'Tis the glare of his awful eyes!
And the storm-wind shouts through the pines Of Alps and of Apennines,
Ar anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war; And at times from the fortress across the bay The alarum of drums swept past,
Or a bugle blast
From the camp on the shore.
Then far away to the south uprose
A little feather of snow-white smoke,
And we knew that the iron ship of our foes Was steadily steering its course
To try the force
Of our ribs of oak.
Down upon us heavily runs,
Silent and sullen, the floating fort;
Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, And leaps the terrible death,
With fiery breath,
From each open port.
We are not idle, but send her straight Defiance back in a full broadside! As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, Rebounds our heavier hail From each iron scale
Of the monster's hide.
"Strike your flag!" the rebel cries, In his arrogant old plantation strain. "Never!" our gallant Morris replies; "It is better to sink than to yield !" And the whole air pealed
With the cheers of our men.
Then, like a kraken huge and black She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp ! Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, With a sudden shudder of death,
And the cannon's breath
For her dying gasp.
Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Still floated our flag at the mainmast-head. Lord, how beautiful was thy day! Every waft of the air
Was a whisper of prayer,
Or a dirge for the dead.
Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas! Ye are at peace in the troubled stream, Ho! brave land! with hearts like these, Thy flag, that is rent in twain, Shall be one again,
OUT of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.
Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression, Even as the troubled heart doth make In the white countenance confession, The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.
This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, Now whispered and revealed To wood and field.
A DAY OF SUNSHINE.
O GIFT of God! O perfect day: Whereon shall no man work, but play; Whereon it is enough for me,
Not to be doing, but to be!
Through every fibre of my brain,
Through every nerve, through every vein, I feel the electric thrill, the touch Of life, that seems almost too much.
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